


Safety

by leaveyoursanityatthedoor



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3
Genre: Down the rabbit hole, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Far Cry 3 - Freeform, Graphic Description, I blame Better Call Saul for this, Mild S&M, Rating: M, Safety, following white rabbits will get you into deep trouble my friend, it gets dark in here, mindgames, minor cameos from others in the game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-13 03:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3366206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveyoursanityatthedoor/pseuds/leaveyoursanityatthedoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had told her there was no such thing as safety. Two years after her escape from the Rook Islands, a young woman's past comes back to haunt her. Vaas/OC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Back in 2012 when I first played Far Cry 3, I certainly found Vaas very entertaining; but as for feeling attracted to him I did not. Then Better Call Saul comes along, with Michael Mando in the cast, and it makes me nostalgic for the game, which I haven't played in a good two years. As I don't own the game myself (sacrilege, I know), I began my re-acquaintance with it via The Far Cry Experience, whereupon suddenly I found myself developing a, shall we say, different sort of appreciation for Vaas; of which this story is the result. I hope I'm not too late to the already modest party.
> 
> There are a few things I need to make clear before I begin, though: Firstly, due to several inconsistencies in the canon, I've had to alter some parts of Vaas' history; it does not impact upon the story, but it bears noting in case canon is what you're expecting. I've also had to amend the official plot (namely: some of the geography, and the events of the game happening) in order for this story to work. Secondly, please be aware this story is rated M for all the usual reasons; I assume you can already guess what those are ;)
> 
> With that out the way, all I have left to say is the usual disclaimer about not owning the characters, blah blah blah. Ubisoft and Michael Mando own 'em; I just borrow 'em for fanfic purposes. Righty then, let's get to it!
> 
> . . . . . . . .  
> TRACK RECOMMENDATION:  
> Mondkopf "Eternal Dust"  
> . . . . . . . .

In the day's dying light, she reached the hill. Despite not being incredibly high, it stood visible throughout many points of the island. She had glimpsed it several hours earlier, whilst picking a desperate way through the foliage of one of the other wooded slopes of this particularly scenic death camp, hoping she wouldn't have to climb it. Although littered with tangled weeds, patchy grass, and an array of tropical bushes on the incline, the summit itself stood unobscured. But luck had deserted her, and it turned out she would have to after all. Maybe if she dropped to a crawl when she began nearing the summit, she wondered, then they wouldn't spot her. It wasn't much, but it was the best she could muster.

Out of nowhere, a gunshot rang out from somewhere behind her – at least, assuming the breezy air wasn't distorting the direction - and she heard voices. All male; desperate, blood-curdling screams from a few; aggressive responses from their captors as they herded them like cattle to the slaughter. She paused, trying to get a better bearing on their location. Strange to find them all the way out here, she pondered briefly. She hadn't seen anyone for ages; yet all of a sudden here they were.

Then, almost a soon as they had appeared, the voices fell silent, like a mirage vanishing in the blink of an eye. No gunfire. No sound of animal growls, collapsing trees, or swinging blades; simply eerie, deathly silence. Perhaps the captives had been chloroformed, and their pirate captors, contrary to their leader's word, were now tailing her? Worse yet, perhaps their leader had found her? He and his men all carried walkie talkies, she remembered; she had likely passed by a few of them on her way, their stealth techniques too refined for her untrained senses to notice, and the crackling of their communication devices disguised by her frantic footsteps and the sheer pounding of her heart.

Keep moving. She had to keep moving, and not look back.

 _I'll give you ten minutes head start_ , that distinctive, Latino voice rang out in her head. His lips against the shell of her ear, it dropped to a whisper:  _Count yourself lucky, sweetheart._ Hours later, she could still feel the uncomfortable tickle of his hot, tobacco-laced breath against the side of her face; the heat and strength of the arm slung claustrophobically around her shoulders; as if the moment was replaying itself on loop. She shivered, remembering those pale hazel, kohl-rimmed eyes, with their intense gaze and macabre gleam. She knew now that if she survived this, the memory of that man – that lunatic – would stay with her, forever. He made it his business to be someone you wouldn't forget easily.

Ignoring the soreness of her muscles, and the blisters on her feet, she climbed; her chin-length dark hair clinging, stringy, to her sweat-glazed cheeks and neck. As she drew nearer to the peak, she could make out something at the top... or, more precisely, some*one* - a solitary male figure in board shorts and a baggy yellow t-shirt, recognizable from the start, despite the distance. Martin – one of the men sharing the cage with her.

But how? Hadn't he been killed? Hadn't her captor said she was the only one to be let go?

How stupid to have blindly believed him. Of course she couldn't be the only one; where was the fun in that? He had been playing his mindfuck games again. But at least... at least that meant Martin was alive. They stood a better chance together. She felt a momentary surge of bright, dazzling hope. Thank whatever diety or dieties existed, because Martin was alive. He was *alive*. Surely that was something? It had to be.

He stood, back facing her, motionless as a statue. Just standing there. She paused, waited several moments, watching him, wondering if he would turn around; but he didn't. Was he resting, she wondered? Surveying the landscape? Scoping out an escape route? And then the hope that had surged so rapidly popped out of existence, to be replaced by a creeping dread. Had he given up? Had he lost so much hope that he had was now playing target practice, just waiting for one of the snipers to pick him off up there?

Keeping her eyes on him rather than the incline, she started up again. He continued to stand perfectly still, as if waiting. For what, she couldn't fathom; but it did feel foreboding.

Nevertheless, she wasn't about to let it stop her. She couldn't.

Her right foot became entangled in a bristly weed. She tried to wrench the foot out, but the stalk was too stubborn. She had to crouch down and actually tear the damn thing with her hands. It left a red imprint around her ankle. No matter. Undeterred, on she went.

She had reached the halfway point; far too quickly, it seemed. It was as if she had blinked and suddenly found herself a good thirty feet higher up. She must have been moving faster than she thought. Yet, the remains of the light seemed to have faded inexplicably fast, too. No – there had to be rational explanation for that. Night fell quickly in south-east Asia, didn't it?

She climbed further, further still, her attention steadily fixed on Martin's tall, slim form, as if looking away would make him disappear. Still, he hadn’t moved an inch, and it was really unsettling hernow. It didn’t seem possible or natural for someone to stand so utterly motionless for this amount of time. It didn’t seem right. Almost as if-

A trap.

_No. No. Please, no._

They had planted him there, especially for her. He was done for and he knew it; and she would be, too, once she reached him.

Her rational side resurfaced, screaming at her to turn back. There had to be another way forward – one that she had overlooked. And if there wasn't, she would damn well have to make one, wouldn't she? But it was dark now, and unlike the wildlife her captor had warned her of – tigers, boars, snakes, tarantulas, and more - she didn't have night vision on her side. What if her captor was tailing her, though? If he was, then either way her luck had run out. Therefore-

She couldn't turn back. She couldn’t, even if she wanted to. If she was screwed either way then she might as well continue the way she was headed.

Further she climbed. With every step forward, the trepidation grew, and so did the giddiness, but she fought through them. Nothing for it but to continue upward. Nothing. Nothing.

Less than three meters from the statue-like Martin, she paused, taking a deep breath. Martin waited, inert. Not that she could tell, but…was he even  _breathing_?

She counted thirty seconds, and then started on those final few paces, at the same time noting how the breeze in the air had stilled. Paces towards her doom, perhaps, but it was irrelevant now. She had made her choice.

Onward.

Biting back her fear, she reached the summit, fully upright and visible as a target. It made no difference now – she had taken the bait. Her fellow captive stood less than a meter away.

What should she do now? Would she physically have to tap him on the shoulder, call his name?

Again, she waited. 10 seconds. 20. 30. She would have to make the first move.

“Martin...?” came a trembling voice, nearly unrecognizable as her own.

He didn't move. She waited, the silence deafening. Not even a cricket stirred.

“Martin?” she repeated, her tone more beseeching than curious.

Absolutely nothing. Absolute stillness. Impossibly, even her heart had quietened.

Cautiously she took what she somehow knew would be that fateful step forward, breaching the gap between them, and layed a tentative hand on his shoulder.

Like a flash, he whipped around... and she nearly jumped backwards in fright. She nearly screamed, too, but the cry caught in her throat. Caught tight. Snagged like loose skin on a meat hook, like silk on a rose thorn.

Holy mother of Christ! What the-

With a gasp, Isabel opened her eyes to the dark confines of her bedroom. Awake, alive, safe.


	2. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter. Don't worry – they're going to get longer as time goes by.
> 
> . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
> 
> Track recommendations:
> 
> First part: ASC "A Song For Hope"  
> Second part: VVV "Lost And Found"

"Aaaaaand, we have a Canadian," the mohawk-haired Latino read aloud in an alarmingly chipper tone, poring over her passport. "Ibáñez-Iglesias. Isabel Rocio." _Rocio_ , with a gently rolling 'r'. Shooting a sharp glance in her direction, he continued, with a small flick of the left hand and tilt of the head, "Interesting initials, if you remove the Rocio." He looked back to the document in his right hand, running his index finger over the space that housed her name. "Triple I. Rare."

Isabel's heart still pounded with the intensity of a battering ram, the force of each beat reverberating into her throat and seeming to push at the confines of her chest. It surprised her that she hadn't died of a coronary yet, or at the very least passed out. Despite a whispering breeze frequently ghosting through the cages, her skin stung, overly responsive to the oppressive tropical heat and prickly, charged atmosphere; even the air seemed to bite at her, with conical razors for teeth. Her eyes and nose stung, too, whilst her bare ankles and wrists continued to protest against the tight bindings cutting mercilessly into her flesh. The layered strips of duct tape stretching from ear to ear, although wholly ineffective as a silencing device – which she guessed wasn't the point anyway - further upped the cloying discomfort, as did her increasingly swelling bladder.

Yet, none of it had felt quite this bad until _he_ had shown up. Where the other pirates grunted, barked, and generally avoided eye contact, this particular guy seemed macabrely personable – personable in a manner particular to those who enjoyed the social element of their 'work' a little too much; the kind of people who took great pleasure in taunting you, toying with you, inflicting cruelty or showing mercy as and whenever they saw fit. And, although not the tallest of the gang, he possessed that rare quality that few could affect or imitate: he had presence.

But it was the kind of presence that so unnerved her about him, - something beyond the swagger and the showmanship; beyond the prominent scar running from his left eyebrow to the back of his head; beyond the Hispanic accent that Isabel couldn't quite pinpoint; beyond even the striking combination of olive, mestizo skin and pale, hazel eyes, ringed with smudged kohl. Even when calm there was a certain aspect to his gaze, an edge to his voice, that bordered on the unhinged. Isabel was far from expert at making snap assessments of people, but she felt, with absolute conviction, that she was reading this man correctly. Her cell mate, Martin Banks - a lanky backpacker in his mid twenties, from New Zealand – seemed to agree. He had been trying his best to remain stoic, although the look in his blue eyes told a different story. Since their captor's arrival, the young man's composure had begun to visibly falter.

"Tenth of January, 1987." The fellow Latino closed his eyes, giving a modest head shake and an ironic-sounding chuckle. "There's some fearful fucking symmetry," he muttered, in a register almost too low to discern, leaving Isabel wondering whether the cryptic comment was to her, or himself.

Fearful symmetry – a quote from William Blake's poem The Tyger, which Isabel had studied as an English literature major. Funny – she wouldn't have pegged a man such as this for a reader of poetry. Perhaps he wasn't, but simply knew of the quote? That seemed more likely than appearances being deceptive. But whatever he was, and whatever relevance the quote bore to the both of them, it sat very uneasily with her. It seemed somehow portentous. A tiny part of her mind that hadn't succumbed to terror told her she was reading too much into it; but although she agreed with it, for the life of her she couldn't let the quote go.

"Fucking binary," he murmured, flashing her a brief but particularly biting look, before engrossing himself in flipping through the pages of her passport.

She shivered, flinching in her constraints, not wanting to consider what could happen to her if this man, for whatever illogical reason, had taken a genuine dislike to her. She cast a glance to the left side of the cage, making eye contact with her cell mate. The guy looked distinctly rattled.

Relaxing his gaze, the duo's adversary casually slipped the passport into the pocket of his tapered jeans, next to Martin's. From his back pocket he produced a loose cigarette and lighter, promptly lighting up. Taking an immediate drag, he crouched down, right arm resting on his upper leg, left hand wrapping long fingers around the bamboo bar. Isabel noted the blood-stained supports on his upper knuckles. Eyeing her with an unreadable expression, he exhaled slowly, a small white cloud filtering through his parted lips.

"You know," he began in a laid back tone, only to be interrupted by an urgent sounding call from out of view. If she really felt like it, Isabel could have turned to see the owner of the voice; currently, however, it seemed like too much hassle. That, and the not so insignificant problem of feeling weirdly tethered to her captor's gaze. Although not liking the attention he was giving her, something – be it fear, morbid curiosity, or something she couldn't even put a name to - prevented her from looking away.

"Boss!" the voice cried – _bahs_ – in an accent Isabel guessed sounded Somalian or from somewhere in that region. "Boss! We got another three from Samalona!"

Palau Samalona, Isabel thought with dismay; that same, charming little island off Indonesia's Makassar coast, where she too had sealed her own fate.

Her life was going through a major transition. After losing her job, and being cast out from her long-term group of friends for a crime she didn't commit – both in the same fortnight – time away had seemed like the right idea. Far from well off, she had worked long and hard for years to save enough money for a decent vacation, and South East Asia turned out to be the area that caught her eye. Her run of bad luck, however, had decided to tag along with her. How naïve, how utterly stupid had she been to believe that she could suddenly make things work abroad, when everything else at home was falling apart? Distance solved nothing.

That 'everything else' almost seemed trivial now.

What was meant to be the experience of a lifetime with her then-boyfriend had turned into a make-or-break vacation to salvage a relationship that she knew, in her heart, had been dead in the water for nearly a year. The situation had becoming untenable when, upon their arrival in Makassar, the stupid fucking asshole had chosen to tell her that he was already seeing someone else. Not just anyone, though - the very friend who had wrongly pinned the blame on Isabel for her own boyfriend's infidelity. Isabel had gone it alone after that, telling the cheating SOB she would make her own way home. He had made no attempt to stop her, and she was damn grateful. Fortunately she had enough money spare to account for food, drink, budget accommodation, and travel. The little amount of Indonesian she had mastered was enough to get by, and, provided she kept her wits about her, she shouldn't run into any trouble.

Hours later she had found herself staying on the tiny, quaint Samalona Island; just her, her suitcase, and her thoughts, amidst a revolving door of tourists. She had stayed there overnight, planning to return to the mainland the next day; but her plans had changed when she saw the tourist boat with the sign "See Undiscovered Indonesia!" emblazoned on the side. In hindsight, she should have been more circumspect than to let herself be swayed by the cheap fares and excited tourists. Although a fan of taking risks, she had never considered herself the kind of person to give in to reckless impulse; it was only because of her preparedness for the vacation that she could have even considered going solo. But there were places left on the boat, and the overheard chatter of the tourists had convinced her.

"Guys, guys!" enthused one gap year Californian as he joined his friends at the cafe table. "Get this: dude over there just told me there's, like, this one island, that's like, literally just opened for business. Says you can do anything there. Snorkelling; kayaking; scuba diving; jungle treks, man; the works. And they take credit cards. Sound familiar?"

"Is that the place Doug was talking about?" responded one of the quartet.

"Guys, I think it's that exact place!" the first boy continued. "Come on, we can't miss this twice in a fucking row. We gotta go there. Jungle treks, bro. Fucking jungle treks."

The idea of jungle trekking alongside a group of rowdy teens hadn't much appealed to Isabel, although the rest certainly sounded fun. Her ex had dismissed those sorts of activities; sightseeing was about as adventurous as he got.

And why not?, she had thought. With him not around, she was free to indulge herself. She needed some fucking fun before she returned to the ruins of her home life. Perhaps she'd even find a hot guy, or several, to hook up with?

Five hours later, those thoughts and desires seemed like a world away, and if there was any sex on the cards it wouldn't be the consensual type.

A sense of dread, heavy as a cinder block, began to materialize in her stomach.

The Latino turned to face the Somalian. "Really?"

"Yes, really!" the pirate replied. "Husband; real pretty wife; little boy. Boss guy wants to see you about them."

Boss guy? So there was someone worse, more important than the hazel-eyed fiend opposite her? Well, it didn't not make sense – although full of bravado and self importance, people like her captor were usually the street level faction of nefarious organizations. They were the ones doing the grunt work, getting down and dirty so that the higher echelons didn't have to. Pirates were bad enough, but the real baddies were the ones above them – the men in designer suits. The ones who really called the shots.

"Well fuck me-" Aforementioned fiend remarked, looking from Isabel to Martin and then back again. "-this is turning into a good fucking day." He stood up, clapped his hands once, and then clasped them determinedly. "So sorry to cut this short, amigos. I'll be back later, don't you worry."

And with that, he strode off.

* * *

 

On a mild November day in Etobicoke, Toronto, Isabel stared at the blank, white screen of her laptop, huffing in frustration. She shifted position on the couch, drumming her fingertips on the cushion, then took a few swigs from her third bottle of Pepsi. Her right index finger came down with great force on the '0' key. Absent-mindedly, she let it remain there. Nearly an entire hour had elapsed since she had marched into the living room in the resolute manner of someone with a purpose and mission. She had sat down on the couch, wireless laptop on her lap, brain and fingertips simultaneously engaged and ready to unleash a textual blizzard on that clean, white screen. It turned out the only textual blizzard she had accomplished was a perpetual stream of zeros. So much for exorcising her demons in text.

Zeros. How apposite; almost as if fate were mocking her. She sighed loudly, frowning.

"Hey, someone might want to read it," a female voice suggested from out of the ether, as if reading Isabel's mind.

Isabel jumped in her seat, the laptop nearly falling as she quickly swivelled 45 degrees to find Claudia sitting at the dining table across the room. She frowned for the second time, mystified at how her younger sister had managed yet again to let herself into the bungalow without causing the slightest disturbance of sound. Claudia mirrored Isabel's expression, then cocked her head to one side like an inquisitive bird.

"Please don't do that," Isabel admonished her. She would have told her not to tilt her head, too, but that wasn't a realistic or fair expectation. "I know it's your forte, but-"

"I know," the diminutive brunette interjected. "I'm sorry." And she was – Isabel knew she was. Despite meaning well, the problem with Claudia was that she was apt to forget certain things, especially since having moved out a year prior to the events of Isabel's ill-fated vacation. Only certain things, but that was little consolation. Claudia remembered the 'old' Isabel – the 25-year-old of two years ago, with short hair and an ever keen eye for fashion and make-up; the one who took risks; the one who didn't use to startle so damn easily. Virtually identical to herself in every way, save the 11 months in age, and three inch height difference. She spent far less time with the new model – the make-up free version who wore shapeless outfits; kept her long hair in a ponytail; and insisted on playing everything safe. Isabel 2.0: the CMYK to Isabel 1's RGB; and more like a second cousin than a sister.

"You nearly fucking killed me."

The younger woman snorted. "Nah. Remember what I keep telling you: the heart's a surprisingly resilient mechanism." In past times she would have joined Isabel by her side, giving her a reassuring tap on the shoulder, then continuing jovially, "Trust me, you'll be fine!".

"Yeah, I trust you. After all, you're not a doctor," would have been Isabel's usual riposte.

"That's true; a doctor I am not. However, I am a brain surgeon." In one swift motion Claudia would have clamped her hands around Isabel's wrists, lunging forward to bring their faces a mere few inches apart, and then whispered menacingly, "I fuck with peoples' minds!"

Claudia's large, dark eyes would have locked sharply with Isabel's, refusing to blink; and the sisters would have remained in silent mock-combat for twenty seconds that seemed like en eternity, before mutually bursting into laughter.

But that didn't happen anymore; that was one thing Claudia didn't forget. She no longer mentioned mind-fuckery outright to her sister, nor did she lock gazes with her in such a capacity. Isabel didn't find those things amusing anymore. She felt at once grateful for small mercies, and resentful of herself for that gratefulness.

Isabel 2:0 focused on the screen again. "Add a 1 in front of the zeros and put in my bank account," she grumbled, "then every bank manager from here to Papua New Guinea would want to read it."

"Don't sweat it, Izzy," Claudia said genially. "You can't force these things. Try again later, or tomorrow."

Isabel have a half-hearted shrug. "I'm back at work tomorrow."

"Exactly. Getting back to work might help get your brain in gear."

"Claudia..." Isabel began, pausing to reconsider what she had intended to say, but deciding she couldn't be bothered, "why didn't you call before coming by?"

"I didn't think you'd be in - you're normally doing the grocery run this time on Sunday. Then I saw your car."

"You could have knocked, or rang the doorbell."

"I know, Izzy. I'm sorry, really. Stupid lapse of judgment. Forgive me?"

Isabel nodded, managing a weak smile. It was hard to stay annoyed at her younger sister for long. Everyone did stupid things. Everyone made mistakes. "What were you doing in the area anyway?"

"Client nearby wanted a quote on their backyard."

"On Sunday?"

"Yeah. I work weekends now. Gotta keep up with the competition."

"Hnh."

"It's good, though. Keeps me on my toes. And," Claudia's voice took on a spritely tone, "today it gave me an excuse to see my sister. It's been too long, Izzy-kins. I feel bad about that."

"It's not your fault, Claudia," Isabel replied, without a hint of recrimination. "Really. It's just how things go."

Despite their differences, Isabel could never bring herself to blame her sister for the two of them growing apart. Claudia hadn't abandoned her; if anything, Isabel had pushed her away, out of not wanting to be taken care of like an emotional invalid. She had distanced herself from everyone, and the ones who truly had cared had been decent enough to give her that space. The upshot was that most of them had eventually moved on, and the few who remained – her mother, her sister, and her friends Brian and Stefani – had become busy with other things. They were happy, and, rationally or not, Isabel had become overly worried with becoming a drain on that happiness. She felt embarrassed, even ashamed, for having changed.

If Claudia had wanted to argue differently, she forewent voicing it, opting instead to change the subject.

"So," she started, "got anything planned for today?"

Isabel shook her head jerkily. "Nah. I planned on writing this stupid catharsis thing that we'd talked about, but..." she gestured toward the screen, snickering. "I went grocery shopping yesterday, by the way. I'm not trying to starve myself, as you can clearly see." Pushing the laptop aside, she stood up, turning a full circle. Over the two years since that vacation, she had gained a full 30lbs, out of quitting the gym and relaxing her stringently healthy diet. At just 5'2, 30lbs made a huge difference in appearance. Next to her 110lb sister, she felt like a walrus; although actively doing something about it seemed like too much hassle. Maintaining her previous weight had required significant willpower, motivation and effort; and the fact was, she just couldn't rouse those parts of her psyche any more. Then again, perhaps she hadn't found the right reason to?

Claudia tittered, but ignored the remarks. "D'you wanna come to Mom's with me? She'd love to see you."

"Eh," Isabel replied, yawning, stretching her arms above her head to relieve the stiffness. Whilst she didn't particularly feel like socializing, she hadn't seen her mother in over a month. If her mother really did want to see her – drain on the woman's happiness or not – Isabel felt she owed her that. "Might as well."

"Hey, a little less enthusiasm wouldn't kill you, you know."

Isabel affected a surly expression. "Pffft. You'll take my apathy, bitch. You'll take my frenzied apathy and fucking like it. Hah."


	3. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the extremely remote chance that there are any Bengali Hindus reading this story, I apologize in advance for my ignorance of your naming system according to caste and other factors. The amount of research required for what is essentially a very small facet of this story would have taken much too long. You're very welcome to PM me with your corrections, though. 
> 
> I've also taken a few liberties with the location of Isabel's exact workplace, as those who know what it's based on may notice. Again, it's no biggie, but I include disclaimers about these things as standard. 
> 
> \- - - - - - - -
> 
> Track recommendations:  
> Second part: Unghost “Inspire”  
> Third part: Dadavistic Orchestra "Strung Valve Checkout"

**CHAPTER 2**

Her heart not letting up one iota, Isabel craned her head to watch the Latino leave, almost as if he were dragging her gaze along with him. The face to the voice – a wiry, dark-skinned man with the bottom half of his face obstructed by a scarf - waited around 20 feet away, ready to take over. In passing, the Latino suddenly stooped, landing a punch in his underling's nether regions.

“Fucksake, Boss,” the Somali cursed in a winded register, half crumpled over, much to the Latino's amusement.

“I'll stop doing it when you fucking wise up to it, man,” said the latter as he slunk away.

“Hey! The fuck you looking at, bitch?!” the Somali yelled, noticing Isabel. She would have taken the hint and looked away, had her bladder not been overfull, and her throat parched. She needed to pee, and she needed to drink, or she would pass out.

“Please,” she begged, her words muffled by the tape, but not obscured to an unintelligible point.

“What?” the Somali snapped.

“I need to pee!” she pressed, desperately. “And I need water. Please!”

The man seemed to have no trouble understanding her. He tutted loudly, shaking his head, but was gracious, or duty bound, enough to comply. Producing a key from the pocket of his cargo pants, he unlocked the chain to the right of Martin's head, pulling the door open and crawling inside. After ungracefully yanking Isabel's bindings undone, and dragging her out of the cell, he marched her in the direction her captor had gone. Having been brought to her cell blindfolded, all this was new to her. Following the wide, dirt path, he led her down a gentle slope overhung with drying clothes on washing lines. They passed by a cage on the right, inhabited by two of the teenage boys whose conversation Isabel had overheard on Samalona. One now sported a gash on his forehead, after putting up a fight when captured, Isabel recollected; the other merely looked defeated. She made brief eye contact with the injured one; a moment of transient solidarity in the madness.

The Somali led her left, around the side of a corrugated iron building, toward a crude, bamboo shack barely bigger than a portable toilet. Pirates milled about in the pavilion opposite, some regarding her with casual disinterest, although the hostility in the air felt palpable.

“Hurry the fuck up,” her ward barked as he opened the door to the shack, pushing her inside as if she needed encouragement. The toilet happened to be no more than a bucket, with a toilet roll laying on the ground, next to a large bottle of hand sanitizer.

 _No expenses spared for your guests, eh,_ a sardonic voice piped up in Isabel's head.

Mercifully, thanks to the bamboo, the shack's structure permitted just enough air circulation to stop the place from reeking. Isabel did not, however, inspect the bucket; although she did chance a look at her wrists and ankles, which, unsurprisingly, bore angry scarlet imprints from their bindings.

After relieving her bladder, she emerged to find the Somali holding a 0.5 litre bottle of water. He wasted no time divesting Isabel of her gag, then thrust the bottle, already open, at her. He waited impatiently as she downed the entire thing. Even though the contents disappeared within mere moments – and those were moments of sheer, unadulterated bliss – it still appeared not to be fast enough for the man, who tutted repeatedly. Before the bottle was even empty, the man had fished a roll of duct tape, and a Swiss army knife, from his trouser pocket, re-gagging his quarry the instant she had finished.

Two minutes later, Isabel found herself back in the cell, tied up good as new. Just as the guard was about to leave, Martin announced that he, too, needed the toilet, and a drink of water. The Somali tutted again, but eyed the New Zealander sceptically. Isabel couldn't have guessed it then, but this would be the last time she saw her cell mate alive.

* * *

 

After buying her usual two bottles of coconut water from the newsagents a few shops away, and getting distracted for one moment too many by noticing the slight but irritating shift to the angle of the clock on the shop wall, Isabel now stood resting her elbows on the counter again as her fellow employee, Cleo, served a customer. In the newsagent she had considered notifying the cashier about the clock, but rejected the idea when the man in line behind her snarked “Excuse me, are you making a will? Some people don't have all day.”. Isabel had looked to the cashier – a new girl – for support, but was met with a cold stare and impatient wrap of long fingernails on the counter. She had never understood why people, staff and customers alike, brought such an attitude to queuing. Not everyone was blessed with the speed and agility of an Olympic sprinter when paying for items and putting their purses safely away. When behind the counter herself, everything was fine; but as a customer, she would often develop sudden dyspraxia, and find herself having to slow down to compensate. Safety first, always.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Isabel had countered, with a shit-eating grin, as she passed by the haughty-looking man. Fingers crossed he didn't stop by her workplace.

The man had turned to continue the altercation, yelling something at Isabel's back, although his words were swallowed by the noisy, bustling crowds.

Back at her station in the Your 24 convenience store, Isabel sighed, which became a full blown yawn. First day back at work, after a fortnight's unpaid leave due to flu – only possible thanks to her manager's grace – and all going swimmingly, hah fucking hah. A college education and here she was, still working 3-11pm (the second shift, as it was called) at a convenience store, for the fourteenth month now. A convenience store that never stocked coconut water, at that. Still, she knew she shouldn't complain. Thanks to the economic downturn of recent years, she was lucky to be in employment at all – employment, she reminded herself soberly, she wouldn't even have found if not for her mother's ex-colleague and good friend Sava Chattopadhyay. The Bengali-Canadian ran one of the two Your 24s at Pearson Airport, and, as per Diana Ibáñez-Iglesias' continual requests to help bring her daughter back into the land of the living again, had notified the both of them when a vacancy at his store became free.

Mercifully, Isabel's expenses were few – living in what used to be the family home, with the mortgage already paid off by her parents, and everything else being just about taken care of thanks to her own savings, and lump sums from the wills of both her maternal grandparents, she had enough to get by for the time being without needing to look for work. She worked because she wanted to. Having been unemployed for ten months, and with no other prospects in sight, she felt she would have been a fool to turn any sort of work down. Whether down to a case of nepotism, or not, she landed the lofty position of 'sales assistant' – cashier, clerk, and customer service representative all in one – and had been there, on minimum wage, ever since. All things considered, it hadn't done much for her mental health, but it was _something_. Sometimes it was the only thing holding her together, even if Cleo often drove her to distraction.

17-year-old Cleo, who had been working the second shift almost as long as Isabel, would have been a fully likeable character if only she would have stopped talking about her love life once in a while. Unlike many others, she seemed genuinely good-hearted, never having a bad word to say to or about anyone; but Lord Almighty, when she got going, the girl never shut the hell up about the men – the boys – in her life. Not that Isabel begrudged her an active sex and love life, or even discussing it with her colleagues; quite the contrary. It was simply that the girl had no other topic of conversation, coupled with a complete lack of filter when it came to personal privacy. Isabel guessed, however, that she herself was the extraneous one for not being guy-crazy; every other young woman seemed to be, apparently. She was the misfit nowadays.

Rather a misfit, though, than putting herself through undue heartbreak again; and casual encounters held no interest for her any more...or so she tried to convince herself. There had been infrequent opportunities for one night stands, but she had declined, for a reason she was afraid to admit even to herself, because admitting it would mean _he_ was right. Thinking about _him_ during her waking hours was something she strived to avoid at all costs; he stalked and prowled her dreams often enough. They all did – everyone she had encountered on that island – but him most of all. Her own personal Freddy Krueger, of sorts.

He had been her catalyst. Not losing her job; not her group of ex-friends; not her ex-boyfriend; _him_. A guy whose name she didn't even know had compounded everything. All the choices she had made in her life had brought her to him; and although she had escaped the island, he remained with her, always lurking some place in the background, primed to pounce. He had gotten into her damn head and reconfigured the set-up, and he was still there, re-emerging in a dream just when she thought she was in the clear.

She regarded people now in a different way now, thanks to him. She sensed the divide between her and them now, and it often made her want to disengage with the world. It wasn’t so much that social interaction frightened her, but that she felt the palpable difference between herself and everyone else – a sense of isolation that no-one could even begin to understand. Some people called it PTSD. Others called it mental illness. Isabel called it 'the-fuck-if-I-know'.

Nearing 6pm, and the store was abnormally empty. A typical day consisted of an ever-revolving door of customers, entering and leaving in droves, where neither Isabel nor Cleo being afforded more than a total of half an hour for food, drink and toilet breaks. Today, however, it almost seemed the place had fallen victim to a boycott – there had been perhaps twenty customers in the past three hours – thus leaving Cleo to serve the sparse clientele, whilst Isabel had taken the opportunity to clean the various self service drinks machines. All things considered, it had worked out or the best; another colleague, Tom, usually took care of the cleaning, but had called in sick.

The machines spruced up, and with nothing else to do for the first time in fourteen months, Isabel allowed her gaze, and mind, to wander. Everywhere she looked, she was reminded how quickly life could change, and how transitory everything was. Providing their flights were running on schedule, people were there one hour and gone the next. Everyone was busy going somewhere, changing their scenery, expanding their knowledge in one way or another. She watched the people passing by, singling out certain ones and weaving fantastical, individual stories around them. She wondered, if she were to meet them elsewhere, by some chance encounter, what fate might have in store. Would there be one of them who would recognize that now-dormant spark in her, and offer to reignite it, restore her to her former glory? Someone, essentially, to rescue her?

 _Come with me,_ she imagined the person saying. _Don't worry about money or anything else. There's a flight waiting for us; a private plane destined for a secret location. Close your eyes. Dream. Let me lead you. Forget all this. Up and leave with me right now. Let yourself go._

 _Wake up, princess,_ her realistic side countered, sardonically. _When you fall, no-one's going to pull you up again. No-one's going to rescue you but yourself. That's just how it is. Get over it and_ do _something about it._

“Hey, Izzy,” Cleo whispered.

“Hmm?”

“There's that guy again.”

“What guy?”

“Oh, yeah, you might have missed him. He was here when you were cleaning the slurpee machine. But he was also here on Friday and Saturday. Dunno about Sunday because I wasn't here.”

Isabel scanned the store, sighting its five customers. “Which one?”

“Khaki t-shirt. Beige cargo shorts.”

Isabel saw the man, whose back was to her as he surveyed the chilled drinks. Tall, wiry, with skin the color of pale mahogany, and a mop of short, coffee-brown ringlet curls.

“And?”

Cleo shrugged. “This is an airport store. We don't normally see the same customers three times in four days.”

“Maybe he's a very frequent flyer?”

“Yeah, maybe. But Bradley- you remember Bradley, right?”

Isabel nodded. Another of Cleo's exes.

“A couple years back he used to work at a convenience store in Alberta. There was this one guy who started showing up every day, for like, a fortnight. Then one night the place gets raided; turns out the guy was an undercover cop, and Bradley's boss was like, this major drugs kingpin.”

Isabel snorted. “Yeah, I remember that. But you don't think Sava's-”

“Oh no, no. Well, not really. I mean... Just makes me wonder is all. Or maybe it's Tom they're after? Maybe he got wise, and that's why he pulled a sickie today?”

“Nah. Probably just a coincidence. The guy's probably one of the taxi drivers, and he can't resist our world-class products.”

“I'll tell Sava you said that,” Cleo said naughtily.

“Ehhh, tell him. He knows our own brand goods suck.”

Cleo feigned a shocked expression. “Ohmygod, sacrilege! If I was him I'd fire you on the spot!”

“Well one day, Cleo, when you're manager of this place-”

“Excuse me?” came a male voice from across the room. Foreign accent. Isabel looked, to find the repeat customer in the same spot, but this time facing her.

Mid twenties. Oval face; aquiline nose; small but shapely mouth; almond-shaped eyes. Distinctly Somalian. By all rights it shouldn't have worried her – there were millions of Somalis in the world, and only a tiny proportion of them were pirates – but it did.

_Stay calm. Stay calm. Breathe._

Trying to force the panic down, she affected the perfunctory smile offered to all customers, and said, genially, “Can I help you?” .

* * *

 

A sharp click brought Isabel back to reality. The light was beginning to fade, and she realised she had somehow drifted off to sleep for a good few hours. How that was possible she couldn't fathom, given the level of stress she was under, and it seemed unlikely her captors had been pumping sleeping gas into the cells.

Then she realised the click's source was right beside her, directly to her right, and it – he – was clicking his fingers in front of her face. The Latino. That she didn't jolt, startled, mystified even herself; although the fact of him being in her cell sent her anxiety soaring, further exacerbated by the absence of Martin. Although having rejected her parents' strict Roman Catholic doctrine, she suddenly found herself frantically praying to God, to Jesus Christ, to Mary and all the saints she could remember – praying, hoping against hope, that whatever her captor planned to do, it would be quick and painless. It may be too late for her ex cellmate; but if she could just... She didn't know. All she could do was pray, clutch at some vain, imaginary concept of hope. Futile, probably, but what other option did she have? The man looked to have a good seven inches and 50lbs on her, and his profession alone suggested he would be no stranger to combat. He could probably anticipate her moves before she herself did.

It only occurred to her that she was visibly panicking when her captor cooed, in a manner so jarringly gentle, “Ssshhh. Ssshhh. Relájate.” _Relax_.

 _What's that supposed to mean?!_ Isabel cried internally. _What the fuck is that supposed to fucking mean?! The calm before the fucking storm is what that's supposed to mean. Jesus Christ... Please, please no._

“Please,” she implored him pitifully, in English, through her gag, “don't hurt me.”

Crawling around to face her, the Latino smirked, amused. “No te voy a hacer daño,” he said softly, reassuringly almost – _I'm not going to hurt you_. That she understood Spanish seemed, suddenly, like both a gift and curse. Whilst it meant she could understand what he said, and respond to it, there was something frighteningly intimate about him addressing her in his, and her parents', native tongue, like a deadly secret that only the two of them shared.

Her captor fixed his gaze on hers, continuing in Spanish, "Sólo voy a quitarte la mordaza." _I'm just going to remove your gag._

Isabel's panic picked up again, her mind reeling with all the possibilities of what he was going to shove in her mouth.

 _Shut up,_ she told herself. _Just shut up. You have to keep calm._ Not that it made any difference. She couldn't even find it in herself to remove her gaze from his; and as long as that held true, there would be no keeping calm. Just the fact of him looking at her unnerved her.

“Quieto, nena,” he whispered. _Stay still, baby girl._ Isabel had no choice but to obey. The Latino reached forward, taking the top layer of duct tape in his hands and promptly tearing it off, a stinging red mark in his wake. He didn't pause before removing the second and third layers, or to inspect his work. His hostage's gag gone, he immediately exited and locked the cell. Instead of leaving, though, he walked around to the bars facing her, crouching down as before. Even at that distance, Isabel noted the distinctive scent of marijuana emanating from him. He didn't seem high, though, and his pupils weren't dilated. All the same, he was clearly no stranger to the drug.

“Aren't you gonna thank me?” he said in Spanish, the vaguest of wry smiles at the corner of his lips.

“Thank you,” Isabel responded quietly, in English, immediately reconsidering whether choosing English was a wise move. Her captor had clearly assumed, or even decided, that she understood Spanish; if she spoke to him in English he might take it as gesture of defiance, and punish her accordingly, whether his assumptions were correct or not. She had to minimize every chance of getting herself hurt, by whatever means necessary.

Fortunately, miraculously perhaps, the man didn't seem at all bothered. Almighty relief washing over her, Isabel felt her pulse begin to slow, and the chill down her spine to subside. She was OK, at least for now.

“You know, Isabel,” continued her hazel-eyed foe, in Spanish, “we don't normally get Latinas here. Just as well, because they don't fetch much of a price.”

A price? What? Is that what he was going to do with her – sell her? Or did he mean ransom her? No... what if he meant _both_?

“Everyone wants white bread, corn starch white kids, or east Asians.”

 _Shit_ , that was one suspicion confirmed.

“But don't worry. Chill. Chill. We can still find something to do with you.”

Was that why he had removed her gag?

_Stop it._

“Anyway... first of all, let's you and I have a little tête à tête, eh?”

_Don't you have better things to do?_

_Errr, obviously he doesn't._

Still locked to his gaze, Isabel said nothing, although psychically she beseeched him to look away and give her goddamn breather. A 'soul-penetrating gaze' – that's what it was called; a concept she always dismissed as absolute hokey until today.

“I'm sorry about that guy earlier – the guard. Guy's a fucking asshole. No manners.”

_Or maybe he's just pissed off because you keep punching him in the nuts, apparently?_

“Forget about him, OK? He's guarding someone else right now.”

“Where's Martin?” Isabel started meekly, still in English, before she caught what she was saying. She hadn't even registered herself talking at all. Stupid thing to do, and stupid question to boot. It didn't matter where Martin was; the fact of his absence told her all she needed to know. The possibility of him escaping seemed slim to none; besides, what good what getting her hopes up do?

 _You've given up already?_ she admonished herself. _Just decided that's it, there's no hope any more? Come on, Izzy, that's not you._

“I knew you'd ask that,” her captor continued matter-of-factly, in Spanish.

Isabel still couldn't ascertain his accent. It wasn't Bogota Colombian, like her parents and other relatives; although she thought she could detect slight, occasional twinges of familiarity. It certainly wasn't a form of Argentinian or Mexican; at least, not one she was aware of. She quickly deduced that, as per his appearance, he was likely quite the Hispanic cocktail. Perhaps he had moved around a lot during his life, accumulating facets of each regional accent along the way?

“That's why I brought this-” he removed an iPhone from his jeans pocket, giving the device a playful shake as if it were a bottle of orange juice. “But we'll get to it later.”

_Oh, no. No. No. No._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN 2 
> 
> Random point of interest: whilst researching for this chapter, I think I may have stumbled upon the (potential) origin of Vaas' full name (and I wasn't even looking for his name). I actually discovered the Bengali given name 'Sava' (সভা ) completely by accident, and couldn't resist putting this uncanny coincidence to good use in my story. Although unsuccessful in finding out the Bengali history of the name (the best I could find were variations of “Wise; Old Man; Saint who was a Trainer of Young Monks”), I came across Rastko Nemanjić, aka Saint Sava, who was born in Montenegro, and is one of the most important figures in Montenegrin and Serbian history. Whether the Bengali name is a derivative of this, I have no idea. The surname Montenegro, however, is not necessarily indicative of Montenegrin origin.


	4. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN
> 
> 1\. For those who don't know, the phrase “to kill time” is translated literally, both in words and nuance, in Spanish (“matar el tiempo”). 
> 
> 2\. I'm getting a few views, but virtually no comments or bookmarks (thank you to E, though, for your kind words). It would be great to know what you readers think of this story. It doesn't have to be long or detailed; just a “thumbs up!”/"Great!" is fine (however, if you do happen to have any constructive criticism, please don't hold back). If you like it, I'd really appreciate if you could show support with any/both of those. It brings a smile to my face, and really helps motivate me as a writer :)
> 
> \- - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
> Track recommendations:  
> \- - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
> 3rd part: These Hidden Hands “Laika”  
> \--------------------------------

**CHAPTER 3**

 

 “Can I help you?”

“Do you have any orange grapefruit Gatorade?” the Somali asked.

“I'm afraid we're all sold out, Sir,” replied Isabel apologetically, still wheeling furiously to maintain her calm. “But they'll be back in stock tomorrow, if that's any good?”

“Thank you,” said the man, with a perfunctory smile.

“Do you want me to put one aside for you?”

The man shook his head. “That won't be necessary. Thank you anyway.” And with that, he left.

 _Well that was anti-climatic,_ Isabel thought, watching alongside her colleague until the man disappeared from view. Then again, what exactly had she expected?

_Doesn't matter. You can calm down now. Out of sight, out of mind, right?_

Her paranoia was about to quibble, but she managed to shut it off by talking aloud.

“What did he buy the other times?” she asked Cleo.

“Don't really remember,” the teenager replied. “Saturday it was definitely the orange grapefruit Gatorade, though.”

“I bet he's a taxi driver.” She said it as much to convince herself as to speculate. He was just a taxi driver, new to the airport. Case closed. Nothing to worry about.

Cleo raised her eyebrows. “Because Gatorade's a taxi driver thing?”

“Market research, Cleo. Gotta know your customer base.”

“You angling for promotion or something?”

Isabel scoffed. “Promotion? Here? There's nowhere to go.”

“Yeah there is. Maybe not in this particular store, but the one in the value park garage might have something going. You could make assistant manager, easy.”

“So could you.”

“I'm too young.”

“Senior sales assistant then.” It suddenly registered to Isabel that in all the time she had been working with Cleo, they had never addressed this topic of conversation, nor had she ever given any thought to it. The sole thing she and her colleague had discussed besides the latter's love life, was Cleo having left school two years early. Come to think of it, Isabel couldn't even recall why that was, so stimulating had the said conversation been.

“Not worth the extra duties for a $5 pay rise. Anyway, this isn't about me.”

“I'm fine as I am,” Isabel said, feigning geniality. “I like Sava; you; Tom. Even most of our customers aren't bad. I'm comfortable here.”

“Sometimes it pays to step outside your comfort zone,” the teenager offered, with a smile.

 _And sometimes it doesn't, Cleo,_ Isabel thought, holding back a large sigh.

Blessedly, Sava picked that precise moment to emerge from the back room.

“Priscilla just called,” he announced, “she's got the flu, too. I can't get anyone else at such short notice, so can either of you work her shift tomorrow?”

“I'll do it,” Isabel volunteered without delay. Realistically, there was never any other alternative. Priscilla worked the first shift, 7am-3pm, and frequently took days off due to having to care for a severely disabled son, whose paid carer seemed flaky at best. The only reason she hadn't been fired was that Sava took pity on the beleaguered young woman. Isabel expected that she herself would, too, were she in Sava's position, despite it being poor business sense. As Cleo was never available for first shift, Isabel had always volunteered. A 16-hour day, with practically no breaks, wasn't her idea of fun, but she couldn't argue with the extra pay.

Sava gave a sigh of relief. “Brilliant, Isabel.” He always addressed her by her real name, which, although professional, invariably struck her as odd, seeing as she was Izzy to everyone else save her mother... and _him,_ ironically. If anyone, _he_ was the kind of who person who would have favored informality; yet, he had called her Isabel. “Don't know where I'd be without you.”

“You're welcome, as always,” Isabel replied politely, smiling.

Isabel spent the next half-hour unpacking the latest delivery, and re-stocking, whilst trying to build a story around a tall man with a maroon suit, and tartan tie, who had literally dived into the shop, purchased a mineral water, and just as quickly dived out again. All life was there, at convenience stores. Truly. She placed him as a professor of English Language who in his spare time taught cobras to dance to pipe music. She found herself chuckling aloud at the sheer ridiculousness of her story, and tried to better it with something even more inane.

Back behind the counter, she watched a thirty-something Chinese-looking man and his infant daughter peruse the magazine rack.

“Which one do you want, sweetheart?” the man asked the tiny girl, in a strongly Chinese-accented register.

“That one!” the small girl replied excitedly, pointing at a National Geographic Little Kids publication with a tiger cub on the cover.

The man took the magazine,

“I love the tiger!” the girl screamed in delight, jumping up and down on the spot.

The man paid. Isabel gave him his change and a receipt. Father and daughter left the shop, adult hand in infant hand, tiny skinny legs skipping to keep up with big-legged strides. Isabel's gaze trailed them until they were out of sight. She found herself smiling wistfully, remembering how the world had seemed like such a wonderful place to her as at that age, and wishing she could experience it again if only for one day. Innocence was treasure for the first half-decade of your life.

 _Songs of Innocence: the Lamb_ , as William Blake put it.

 _Songs of Experience: the Tyger._ Fearful symmetry.

 

* * *

 

It must have been fate that caused her to wake an hour earlier than her alarm that morning. As it turned out, her car wouldn't start, so she ended up having to use public transport, which took twice as long. At 6:22am, Isabel stood outside Kipling subway station, awaiting the #192 Airport Rocket bus. She idly shifted her weight from foot to foot, gloved hands shoved firmly in the pockets of her jacket. 192s ran approximately every 14 minutes to Pearson, and they were mostly very efficient, so there was little chance she would have to endure the unpleasant temperature for more than a few minutes.

Isabel had made the trek before at such an unearthly hour. This time of morning wasn’t a popular time for locals to travel, but foreigners seemed to like it. Isabel would usually arrive, often to find a group of tourists awaiting the same bus, all bright and beamish despite their atrociously heavy-looking backpacks. She couldn’t understand why they insisted on wearing the backpacks rather than setting them down on the floor – there were hardly going to be any scavenging anti-socials around before mid-day. Those foreigners were made of sterner stuff than she.

When she had barely slept 4 hours, woke up on the wrong side of bed at 5 in the godforsaken morning, and had to channel mammoth quantities of discipline just to drag herself out of the soft, comforting sheets, the last thing Isabel wanted was to arrive at the station and be greeted with a bunch of noisy tourists, with their their brilliant white teeth and their nauseatingly happy demeanor, radiating health and vitality. She imagined them sneaking glances her way, a condescending glint in their bright eyes; sneering at the state of her. They’d probably been out for a five mile jog before they even got to the station, frickin' smug health freaks.

This Tuesday morning's line consisted of Isabel; a solitary businessman in a charcoal-gray suit; a stout man with a dark ponytail, not altogether unlike _The Simpsons'_ character, Comic Book Guy; and a twenty-something woman with a toddler in a pushchair; and, mercifully, not even one nauseatingly chirpy tourist. A minute later, a middle-aged man joined the group. He was wearing a mismatching combo of faded black jeans, beige hiking boots, and a blue and green anorak. Briefcase in one hand, rucksack on his back. He looked like someone on a combined angling, mountain climbing and business excursion. Even more curiously, in his other hand he carried a violin case. Isabel began wondering whether the man was homeless, autistic, or just poor.

 _Or a terrorist,_ suggested a paranoid little voice. But that was ridiculous. A conspicuous outfit like that was just crying out to be noticed. People wouldn’t forget him - certainly not with the unlikely combination of rucksack, briefcase, and violin case. If this guy was a terrorist he certainly wasn’t going the right way about it. Yet, Isabel felt a nagging suspicion that whatever was in that violin case was _not_ a violin.

The bus arrived. Isabel took a seat at the front; the strange man, somewhere towards the back. She slumped down into the seat, closing her eyes for a moment. She was just getting herself apprehensive over nothing at all. This oddly turned-out man was no more a terrorist than he was a hockey player; he was merely someone with no dress sense.

As the bus moved off, the fluorescent light above Isabel's head began to emit a very unsubtle crackling noise. Isabel tried to blank out, lose herself staring into space, but the light became impossible to ignore. First it was a relentless tap-tap-tap sort of sound, like fingers drumming on a table, then it grew louder and harsher, sparky, as if doused in water. Still the noise increased, relentless and insistent as a hailstorm, as if finally giving its all to stay alive. Any moment it would fizzle out, or explode. Isabel moved to the other side of the bus, preparing herself for flying debris.

But nothing happened. The moment Isabel changed seats, the light relaxed, blinking a couple of times, then returning to normal. Isabel considered returning to her original seat, to see if the crackling started again, perhaps overly sensitive to the static in her body, but couldn't be bothered.

A little under 20 minutes later, the bus pulled in at Pearson's Terminal 1. Isabel had all of 17 minutes until her shift began, which effectively meant 7 minutes, as employees were expected to arrive 10 minutes early. Although curiosity – or lingering paranoia – nagged at her, she couldn't waste time playing amateur detective after the strange man. She needed to let it go.

Yet, letting it go proved to be more difficult than she had expected. Before ducking into the newsagents for her regular coconut water fix, that same itchy little voice compelled her to turn around, just in case. _In case what?_ , she wondered. In case the strange man was following her? Or in case he wasn't? The voice urged that it didn't matter; she just had to know.

_You were saying, about wasting time? Hah._

Sure enough, when she chanced a quick glance, there was the man, some 20 feet away, and closing in. He didn't appear to notice her, although she quickly reasoned he could be pretending.

 _For crying out loud,_ she scolded herself, _for your own goddamn sanity, quit reading significance into things that aren't there. Coincidences happen. Weird things happen. There is no deeper meaning to any of it, least of all people following you._

She didn't wait to see whether or not the man passed her; hunch or no hunch, time was of the essence. If the man continued to follow her – that was, assuming that really was what he was doing – she would have to talk to Sava if and when a spare moment came up, and maybe Sava would call security.

She had completely forgotten about the obscurely-shifting clock on the wall, until it came to paying for her items; then she noticed how the clock had curiously shifted a further few inches to the right again.

She was becoming exasperated with herself now. _Come on, it's hardly out of some Salvador Dali painting. Maybe it's a subsidence issue with the wall; or maybe its fittings have come loose? No-one except you notices or cares, and you know why? Because there's nothing to care about_.

“Excuse me, Ma'am?”

Isabel came hurtling back to reality at the sound of the cashier's impatient, nasally voice. Icy stare. Long, lime green fingernails wrap-wrap-wrapping on the counter.

“Sorry,” Isabel replied, forcing a polite smile. If only the girl would let her explain, maybe she would be more understanding. Then again, maybe she wouldn't. No – she very likely wouldn't. Most likely she would write Isabel off as crazy; and rightly so. No-one fixated over these stupid, trivial things. No-one except crazies.

“ _We're all mad here,”_ Isabel recited to herself, imagining a bunch of people on day leave from a psychiatric institution staring at the clock alongside her. _“I'm mad. You're mad.”_

“ _How do you know I'm mad?”_

“ _Because otherwise you wouldn't be analysing specs of fucking du-”_

She turned around to leave, and walked smack bang into the strange man.

 

* * *

 

“First of all, though,” said the Latino resolutely, in Spanish, “I need your expert help with something.” He paused, letting the words sink in, allowing just enough time for Isabel's anxious curiosity to rise to a deafening clamor. If she had tried to feign nonchalance at all – and she couldn't even be sure herself if she had – his snicker indicated that she had failed the grade. He was too quick for her; or she was too slow for him. Same difference. “I did a little search on your name.”

Isabel wondered how they had internet access so far from the mainland. Satellite, probably; cables didn't run that far, did they? She wasn't sure. They clearly had electricity, although she guessed it had to be from some sort of generator. It caught up to her then just how much she didn't know about the world in general. She was soft and closeted, next to these island folks. Innocent, like the proverbial lamb in William's Blake titular poem.

“Don't often come across triple I's; so I was, you know, intrigued. Kinda. Anyway I had time to kill, so...”

 _Time to_ kill _, eh. Aren't you the fucking comedian._

He looked toward the ground, snorting derisively. Two seconds of blissful respite, and then he was back, holding her gaze captive again. Her eyes felt dry, leading her to wonder if she had even blinked during their warped little union. Had he blinked at all? He certainly wasn't now.

“Until very recently you taught English Literature at a high school. You must be a tough cookie, huh? Teaching teens. Kids are such little shits; I know I had my moments.”

_And there was me picturing you as a choirboy._

He paused, continuing to stare her out as he awaited a response. For the briefest of moments, Isabel wondered if he had read her mind, and was goading her to speak it, to see how reckless, how stupid, fear could make her. Saying nothing, therefore, was the safest option. She was damn grateful that she had miraculously managed to stay enough above her fear and panic enough to process logical thought at all, let alone be able to use it. This wasn't the movies; in real life, hostages were more likely to cower, cry, or fall mute, rather than break into sass-and-whoop-ass mode. That was, if they were smart. So, she waited, trying to stay smart; and he waited, too, hoping for her to be stupid – a bizarre battle of wills that made the seconds seem to drag for en eternity.

Eventually, he relented – or, more likely, grew bored of whatever game he was playing – relaxing his vice-grip stare to a casual gaze, and blinking, too. However, Isabel knew better than to assume victory.

“But then you...resigned? Or you got fired, or made redundant?”

Isabel remained silent, unsure whether he really expected an answer.

“You can speak, you know,” he deadpanned. “That _is_ why I removed your gag; not just to get a good look at your pretty little mouth.”

“I got made redundant,” she replied, as impassively as she could manage.

Her captor pulled a crestfallen face. “Oh, that's too bad,” he said, hamming up the false sympathy. “I'm sorry. The world's a cruel fucking place, you know? I've been let down, too. It fucking sucks.”

 _Yeah; except you probably_ killed _whoever let_ you _down._

“Anyway, I digress. Long story short, it must be fate that brought you here, because you know what I need right now, right at this very moment? No no no no please-” he wagged his left index finger demonstratively, “-get your mind out of the fucking gutter; I'm not that type of guy. What, you don't believe me? Ehhh, can't say I blame you, to be honest. Most of the other guys here, they love to road test the pussy before we hand it over to the buyer-”

Isabel felt a twist of nausea in her gut. Even if he had told her the truth when he'd said there was little call for Latinas, all it meant was simply that: that she probably wouldn't be sold. It didn't mean that whatever alternative awaited her here would be any better. Wherever she happened to be, she wasn't a person to them; merely a toy to be used and abused until she had outlived her usefulness.

“-but me? Nah. 99 vices but rape ain't one. Sorry to disappoint you there.”

_Apology accepted, your Royal Fucking Comedic Highness._

“I like my ladies _willing_.” He flashed her a vague sort of half smile that, under other circumstances, may have been considered mysterious, seductive – alluring even – or some combination thereof. In this instance, however, it dripped menace and creepiness. What frightened her more, though, was her own body's absurd reaction – the unexpected throb of heat at her core; the breath catching in her throat; the painful clench of her heart. It was as if some deviant soul had infiltrated her skull and was practising mind control over her; as if some demonic split-personality had hijacked her brain, and she could do nothing but gape in horror, paralyzed, watching herself respond and behave in ways entirely anathema to her. Whether it was the change in his terminology – from a mere body part, to a whole person – or his expression itself, for the briefest of moments she found herself, sickeningly, _entertaining_ the idea of giving herself to him willingly.

The instant it sounded in her head, she rejected it with utter revulsion, disgusted both with herself and him. It was as much his fault as hers; if not more. He had planted the idea, maybe, possibly, probably, with the intention of it taking route. The power of suggestion was indeed a very powerful thing, even more so for those in dire circumstances such as hers; people whose best interests it was in to play nice and compliant. Nevertheless, she should have been stronger than to let herself be swayed...right?

 _Right?_ she called out in her head, as if expecting some imaginary party to materialize with a concrete answer. Because, now that she thought about it, she wasn't sure if-

“So anyway, aaaanywaaaay,” the Latino cut her off mid-thought, “you're good with English literature, and fate has it that, you know, I need your help to write a poem.”

“What?!” Isabel spluttered, startled. This experience was taking a turn for the downright surreal.

He chuckled, more genuinely amused than mocking. “Less of the amateur dramatics, please. I said “help to write a poem”; not “shove a lobster up your cooch”.”

“I don't think you need my help,” she muttered without thinking, before realising that she had, in fact, spoken aloud. She cursed inwardly at her careless transgression. She had to keep her goddamn wits about her, lest she wind up going the way of her cell mate. Slip-ups like that were simply not an option.

“You don't?” The Latino gave an inquisitive tilt of his head; a gesture that reminded Isabel of her own sister, the familiarity causing her to shiver. “Why's that?”

 _Because you have such a way with words._ She kept it in this time.

“Come on, you can tell me,” he coaxed. “I won't be offended, I promise. Pinky swear, eh.”

Against her own will, and better judgment, the “pinky swear” part raised an ironic titter. _Shit, shit, shit,_ she thought,this wasn't going well at all.

 _Stop it. Stop. It. Calm down. You have to get a hold of yourself, understand?_ She had come this far; she couldn't afford to lose it now.

“Aww, she laughed! Atta girl! See? Things are so much easier when you just lighten up, you know?”

 _Shut up_ , she thought petulantly, staring at her grazed knees. But he was right, though, wasn't he? The tighter she coiled herself, the worse it would be when she sprung. No, he wasn't merely mocking her; he was _helping_ her.

“Hey-” he clicked his fingers, wrenching her gaze towards his, “please look at me when I'm talking to you, eh. It's only polite.” Although his tone sounded jarringly calm, there it was again – that glint of instability in his hazel eyes, sending an icy wave hurtling down her spine. If she wasn't in the presence of an utter madman, he seemed at least unhinged enough to snap without any logical provocation.

“I'm sorry,” she replied submissively, relief settling in as the spike of neurosis receded.

 _Careful now_ , she warned herself. _You can't afford to get too comfortable_.


	5. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track recommendations:  
> 2nd part: Alva Noto “Xerrox Monophaser 2”  
> 3rd part: Salt Tank “Eugina” (Sargasso Sea remix)  
> \- - - - - - - -

Isabel would have screamed, but in her utter shock, all that emerged from her mouth was a feeble gasp, followed by a freewheeling cascade of emotions - from fear, to bewilderment, to hefty self recrimination for not keeping her wits about her.

“Woah- I-” she stuttered overly apologetically to the strange man, “I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were-”

“No, it was my fault,” said the man, in an unfamiliar accent, as he stepped out of the customers' way. Isabel followed him, appraising his appearance as he continued talking. Late forties, she estimated. Nearly a foot taller than her. Mousy brown hair, cut in a classic, conservative style, longer at the top and tapered at the sides. He wore it parted at the side, and brushed back from his face. It looked incongruous with the rest of his getup. Steel-blue eyes. A day or so's worth of beard stubble. Deep nasolabial creases. “Completely my fault. I shouldn't have stood so close to you. I'm near-sighted, and-” he began chuckling, “these cheapo contact lenses aren't much cop, frankly. Been giving me aggro since I put the damn things in.”

The stranger's apology did little to assuage Isabel's concerns. It was less a case of him seeming insincere, than something – some evasive detail that she couldn't quite place – seeming off about him. Then again, it could simply be her imagination and paranoia overworking themselves, as usual. Just like that stupid damn clock, there was probably nothing untoward going on with the man at all. That he had been standing a mere foot behind her was most likely due to his near-sightedness. Perhaps he had reserved something and was waiting for a second cashier to attend to him? Just another bizarre, but completely feasible, coincidence. These things happened all the time, didn't they? Mystifying synchronicities. Inexplicable symmetries.

Mentally, she sprinted to collect her thoughts and formulate a reply, but the man beat her to it: “I was on my way to the cafe over there when I saw you going into the newsagents. You dropped something from your bag. I called out to you but you obviously didn't hear me. Here-” he reached into the pocket of his well worn jeans, producing a crumpled slip of paper, extending it to her – her bus ticket receipt.

“Oh-” she replied, confused, worried, and suspicious simultaneously, as she took the ticket, “thank you.”

Had she really been so careless as to leave her bag open? Had she even noticed whether or not it had been open when she'd gone to remove her purse? Shit, she hadn't. She hadn't given it any thought whatsoever. She had been so consumed by her own irrational paranoia that she had lost sight of everything else. But what if she had closed her bag, and the man had, in fact, somehow pick-pocketed her? Panic began to surface; was anything else missing? Better check now, while still in his company.

“It's no bother,” said the man, smiling warmly. Deceptively warmly, perhaps.

Isabel mirrored the smile, hoping and praying it would convince him. “Well, there's your good deed for the day, huh!” she said, nerves bubbling under the fake geniality as she opened her bag and rummaged blindly through it, feeling for the essentials.

The man chuckled. “Ja. Pass it on, eh.”

Yah. What was that accent? Dutch? German? South African, possibly? She half wanted to ask him, although the other half knew that engaging the man in any sort of conversation wasn't an option.

_But maybe... Maybe if I just got his name, I'd be able to find out-_

_Supposing he'd tell you his real name. Come on. And there is nothing to find out._

The contents of her bag seemed in tact. Her phone was there, as was her wallet, and she thought she could just about feel her coin purse amongst the rest of the disarray. Yes, she could. If anything had been stolen, at least the most important items remained. Relieved, she smiled again as she zipped the bag up.

“Well, sir,” she continued, “thank you again... for your help. I'm really sorry but I've got to get to work.”

The stranger gave a courteous nod. “You're very welcome. Nice to have met you.”

She had almost expected him to leave a suggestive pause after the “you”; a prompt that she tell him her name. Fortunately, he didn't; although essentially that meant nothing. Perhaps he hadn't requested her name because he already knew it? But that was ridiculous – what possible reason would this man have for needing to know the identity and goings on of an insignificant little convenience store worker? Was this guy an undercover cop? A crooked undercover cop, trying to frame her for a crime?

She nodded back, forcing down her apprehension. “You too. Enjoy your day!”

The man took a further step back to let her pass freely, and Isabel scurried off in haste. As she walked, her reason and paranoia continued to tussle, each vociferously positing their own arguments as to why she should or shouldn't still be worried. The same arguments, repeatedly, like a broken record that couldn't be switched off. It almost, almost, made her want to turn her head and check if the stranger was following, or even to double back and try to find him herself; but she didn't have time...and even if she did, and even if she found the man, what the hell could she even say to him? “Erm excuse me, sir, but what's your name? And why are you following me?”

_What's your name...?_

A memory flashed in the forefront of her mind, bright as a strobe and vivid as if it she were right there in the moment again. Her back against a wall, trapped by a strong, firm body. Unforgettable, hazel eyes. A question put to him, immediately followed by a split-second flicker of emotion in those eyes, that she was sure she hadn't imagined. Parted lips. Slow, deep breathing. Drugs on his breath, and the heady scent of his tanned skin. And heat – so much heat – beautiful but deadly, wrong but utterly irresistible.

_Next you're gonna be asking for my number._

What's your name? Such a simple, innocuous question; but one he had refused to answer.

 _Get out of my head,_ she commanded, with a coolness that astonished even herself. Yet somewhere, somehow, she imagined him laughing, and his parting words to her sounded loud and clear in her head: _You think you're safe, huh? You think you're home and dry? Well let me tell you something, baby: there is no such thing as safety._

* * *

 

By 5pm, Isabel hadn't even looked in the mirror once, but she was sure she didn't look too different than one of the zombies on The Walking Dead. Too bad Daryl Dixon wasn't there to pep her up, or stick an arrow in her head. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, or just the over-exertion of her anxiety, but she felt even more exhausted than usual. Caffeine wasn't helping, nor were the sparse bites of food she'd managed to cram in between serving customers; but she had made a promise to Sava, and she refused to let him down. Her reliability would stand well in her favor if and when she went seeking a better job. To that end, she forced herself to keep going.

 _Perhaps it would help to get something off your chest?_ she mused whilst bagging a customer's goods. _Talk to Cleo about the clock?_

But what could Cleo say; and why should she have any reason to care? What if she thought Isabel was crazy? Not only that, but what if she told Sava, against Isabel's wishes, and Sava became concerned for her mental health? He might lay her off. Nevertheless, the idea of travelling home late at night, alone, set her paranoia whirring again, and had her wondering if it wouldn't be better to lay down her pride and ask Sava if he could drive her home. He only lived a couple miles away – it wouldn't be any hassle for him. But it would require some explanation, wouldn't it? Therefore, she would have to unburden herself to him, at least to some extent.

No. She wouldn't tell him, or Cleo, or anyone. She had travelled home on her own at later hours than this, many times, and lived to tell the tale.

 _It only takes once,_ a little voice enunciated soberly, gnawing at the pit of her stomach. _One fluke. That's all. Saving your life is worth the trade of opening up to someone, isn't it?_

_Potentially saving my life._

_Yes; but there's a fine line between bravery and recklessness._

_Well fuck it, I'm going to be reckless, then._

_Your funeral. Perhaps literally._

“Izzy!”

She only realized she had drifted off into a blank-eyed daze thanks to the call of her name, accompanied by a nudge from Cleo's elbow.

“Izzy!” the girl prompted, pointing to the customer's forgotten wallet. “Go! He went left.”

Springing into reaction mode, Isabel grabbed the wallet, let herself out from behind the counter, and dashed out of the shop, leftwards. It was only when she got caught in the crowd that she remembered, she had no clue what her quarry looked like. She had been so caught up in her own thoughts that she hadn't even looked at the guy.

Shit. Only one thing for it.

“Hey!” she called out to the air, above the din, continuing on her leftward path. “You left you wallet!”

Several heads turned, but only one person swivelled the full 180 and began waking in her direction – a sixty-something man, not too dissimilar looking than Larry David. He approached her with brisk, confident strides, thanking her profusely before he had even come to a stop.

Other than expressing his gratitude, the man didn't linger to try and make conversation. Isabel watched him as he departed, losing herself in the anodyne white noise of the bustling crowd. Just a moment's time out, just one moment more away from the shop; maybe it would help wake her up a little?

She had almost closed her eyes, when the sight of one particular person caused them to snap open; a stocky, south east Asian man of young but indeterminate age, in casual attire. She wasn't sure how or even why, but something about the man struck her as vaguely familiar. The feeling appeared to be mutual, because the man abruptly came to a stop outside the adjacent shop, then turned to face her; and not just face her, but to look directly at her. Waiting. Isabel's anxiety sat up straight, rousing her paranoia along with it. She didn’t like the way the man regarded her, his dark eyes cool but invasive – it set her nerves right on edge – further compounded by his odd familiarity.

He must have been a customer, she told herself quickly. Maybe she had accidentally short-changed him? Or maybe he was that idiot who had cut her up on the road last week...or the one she had absent-mindedly walked into with her cart at the grocery store just the other day?

 _Christ, Izzy,_ an exasperated voice popped up, _this – second guessing everyone – this is utterly ridiculous. Do you know that?_ And the voice would be be right, of course.

_Then how do I know this guy?_

_It doesn't matter. Walk away. Forget about him._

_How can I forget about him when he's just standing there, staring at me? If he's holding a grudge because of something trivial that I did, then what's to say he won't go further?_

_Izzy, for the love of whatever is holy to you – whatever the fuck that is – stop. Just stop._

_What about the man from earlier? What about the Somalian taxi driver? The guy who cut me up? What if they're all connected?_

_Izzy, stop it. Listen to me-_

_I'm getting a cab back home tonight. I don't care about the money._

_IZZY! LISTEN. TO. ME._

Isabel sighed, closing her eyes for a few seconds, hoping to calm down and catch her breath. Maybe, when she opened them, the man would be gone; and if he wasn't, then she would simply turn around and return to her workplace. It really could be that simple, if she would just let it.

Yes, it was that simple. It was. It really was.

Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes. Her heart sank – the man remained.

_So go._

But she couldn't. Her willpower had fucking stalled, and she couldn't get it going again.

Her voice of reason threw its hands up. _I'm out,_ it said.

What could she do now? Jesus, what could she do? She couldn't just stand there like a deer in the headlights waiting to become roadkill.

OK, OK... if she couldn't physically do anything, the least she could manage was not to panic, right? Or, rather, not to panic any more than she was already.

Drawing on reserves of strength she didn't even know she possessed, she focused on the man's dark brown eyes. If he was going to stare at her, she'd stare at him right back. If she stood her ground, maybe he would retreat?

But he didn't. If anything, he took it as an invitation to up his game, because his next gesture was to smile at her. Smile. Yet, bizarrely, it didn't seem like a mocking kind of smile; it seemed sincere, if not a little timid. A secret admirer, perhaps? A friend of a friend who she'd perhaps crossed paths with at a party, and had been harboring a crush on her from afar?

Unlikely. That sounded even more ridiculous than a customer bearing a grudge.

The man took a step forward. Isabel didn't move, unsure what to feel or whether she should be feeling anything at all. He came closer, still smiling. Isabel suddenly felt like a character in a surreal movie, encased in a sphere of inertia as the world moved past in a blur all around her. All the people, all the sounds, colors, smells, textures of the airport; they were the sea and she was floating in a bubble, trapped with this stranger-but-not-really-stranger, who may or may not be about to talk to her, or give her his number, or produce a gun or a knife and attack her...and for the life of her she couldn't move.

And then, just like that, the man spun on his heel, and walked off.

It had all been so brief; one minute at the most.

Flabbergasted, Isabel hastily wrestled with the overwhelming desire to follow him, the proverbial white rabbit to her Alice. She almost yelled for him to wait, but quickly reasoned (although how her reason could be functioning in the midst of such confusion, she couldn't fathom) he wouldn't be able to hear her over the noise of the crowd. But follow him where? Potentially to her doom? Her feet had clearly made the decision for her, because she had already started after him-

-only to be intercepted by an angry-looking young woman in a sharp suit, barking orders down a mobile phone. The woman thrust an irate look Isabel's way as she barged past her, knocking her to the side. Isabel only just managed to recover her footing, narrowly escaping knocking over a pram. Desperately, she resumed her course, trying to pick her way through the crowd; but those few seconds had been her undoing, because the man had escaped from view entirely. She swung around, then swung around again, frantically scanning the crowd everywhere until she was dizzy, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

“Fucksake,” she grumbled in frustration, as much at herself as the situation. What the hell was she doing, following a strange man into the unknown? She was so stupid, so unbelievably stupid. Two years ago, that stupidity – and that naive wanderlust – had gotten her captured by pirates. Had she learned nothing from that experience?

 _Is it because you want to throw it all away on a risk?_ suggested a minuscule voice. _Live for once, blindly and without inhibition? Take the midnight train to anywhere?_ Because she had stopped believing, and she wanted to believe again?

_Fuck off, fairtytale nonsense. And fuck off, paranoia, too. I don't want you, and I don't need you._

Sighing aloud, she trudged back to the shop, hoping there would be no more freakish surprises waiting to greet her.

* * *

 

It didn't matter that she had wasted half a shift's pay on the cab fare home. Despite her rationality's protestations, and the rest of the day going without any weird occurrences, she had nevertheless chosen to play it safe. The Somalian hadn't made an appearance at the store, either, nor had Isabel seen him at the taxi rank. He probably worked days, she reckoned.

She reached home by 11:30, and was in bed within an hour. Normally she would have caught up with her emails, and then watched TV for a few hours; but she felt extra drowsy, and thus decided an early night was in order. About five minutes after closing her eyes, she sensed, rather than saw, a presence behind her. Looming over the bed. Eyes boring into the back of her head. In her increasingly foggy state, she reasoned that it had to be Claudia playing a prank, even at this inhuman hour. Nothing to be concerned about this time. Claudia had slunk in, as she had done upon many occasions, and Isabel had been away in her other world, too removed to properly notice; and not to mention too damn exhausted. Everything became distant, muffled and dimmed when sleepiness took a hold of you. Everything lost its potency to the numbing effect of fatigue.

She considered rolling over to face her sister, or even just mumble for her to leave; but the fatigue seemed too much, too heavy, for her to be able to muster the effort. All she wanted to do was sink deeper and deeper into that blissful void. Whilst still sinking, she remained dimly aware of the feeling of being watched intently, her sister waiting for a reaction. Well, Isabel wouldn't give her one this time; her sleep took priority. That was, supposing Claudia was there at all. It might just be her imagination fighting to stay awake.

That awareness was waning now, though, as she reached the misty twilight between consciousness and sleep. She felt comfortable. A sensation, like sea spray, skimmed over her as she began to drift, letting herself be taken away. Light-headed now. Pleasantly dizzy. Good...

Yet, somehow she could sense – no, she knew – there was something subtly different in this feeling. She knew she was exhausted, and that she was drifting, but she felt as if... as if her mind was somehow separated from her body; as if the remains of her consciousness were collected in her astral form, floating above herself and looking down on her physical form below. But, at the same time, she could still feel the body that encapsulated her.

She was going somewhere now. Somewhere far, exotic. She couldn't see anything yet, but she could sense her body, buoyed by gentle, lilting waves, floating in the sea on a hard but not uncomfortable surface. Cool, refreshing water; warm sunlight; a vaporous breeze caressing her bare skin, carrying particles of salt. Voices far off, swept along on the breeze; a large group laughing, having fun. A tickly sensation on her neck as the breeze danced over her. A sense of closeness, of anticipation, like much-welcomed rain after a drought. Something good. And now a sweet smell, even fresher than the ocean surrounding her; the strong scent of flowers, too close to be merely an artefact caught on a breeze. Strong enough to be right beside her.

Flowers? In the sea?

Well, this was a dream. Dreams rarely adhered to logic.

The fact that she was questioning her surroundings confirmed that she couldn't be completely asleep yet, unless this happened to be some sort of a lucid dream.

 _Wooh, yeah!_ she rejoiced internally. _Look Ma, no hands!_ She was lucid dreaming, in her own personal paradise. This was heaven. She could stay here, uninterrupted, forever and ever, without a care in the world...

 _Oh, wait,_ she thought lazily, _there's something on my neck._ Something tiny and light.

“Go away, fly,” she murmured aloud, sounding half comatose. “Party pooping emissary of annoyance.”

“Wow,” said a vaporous voice, whose timbre and location she couldn't decipher. “You're pretty eloquent when you're drugged.”

“Hnn?” she heard herself reply.

The voice didn't respond. It must have been in her head... unlike the thing on her neck.

“I said go away, stupid fly.”

The fly, or whatever it was, didn't budge. Isabel grunted, swiping at it blindly with her right hand. Missed. She tried again, and again she missed. It must be a mosquito bite, and as a novice lucid dreamer she hadn't learned how to sculpt her dreams yet; only to observe them. Oh well, it wasn't so bad. The bite didn't hurt or even itch. If it didn't get any worse she'd forget about it in no time.

_Famous last words._

_What?_

_It's tickling now._

_Is it?_

Sure enough, she could feel it; a warm, tickling sensation, and a delicate kind of... scraping? Strange, but oddly pleasurable. What the hell could it be?

_Open your eyes and look._

_Can't be bothered. I'm not in any danger, so..._

The tickly feeling increased, sending delightful shivers racing up and down her spine. The sun grew brighter, turning the color behind her eyelids from maroon to amber, and making her skin begin to tingle. Then it was glowing, getting ever brighter by the second, until it became scorchingly bright, immersing Isabel in powerful white light. If she was going blind, it didn't matter; because this place, this feeling... Because she was burning – but not with the heat; with a mysterious, captivating pleasure. Pleasure like she had never experienced before. Was that sensation hands, too? Fingers brushing her cheek; sweeping over her shoulders; stroking over her stomach, down her waist and hips; palms brushing against her knees and down to her feet whilst a second set attended to her arms and hands? Was it? She couldn’t tell whether they were real hands or merely the breeze itself. The scent of flowers danced around her, even stronger now, so pungent that her head swirled with every inhalation, and a peculiar feeling of intoxication enveloped her.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the feeling and began to evaporate, taking the scene with it. Isabel felt a familiar swirling feeling wrapping itself around her, sucking her down, down, into its center. She went with it, unafraid. The distant voices faded into nothingness as both the waves and the raft under her disappeared, along with the soft breeze, the brightness, and the pulsing heat, and was sent spiralling back towards consciousness.

For the umpteenth time, Isabel awoke to a dark room. The clock read 1:35AM – barely an hour since she had gone to bed. Holy Mother of Dog, Batman, she felt hazy. She spent most of her day feeling like the walking dead, but never quite so drowsy as this. It was more than simple tiredness. The only thing she could liken it to was awaking from anaesthetic. And there was also something hovering in the back of her mind, just beyond her reach – something she should be remembering, addressing. But the fog was too thick, and she couldn't reach it. She couldn't even summon the faculties to try.

“Fuck it,” she grumbled, closing her eyes again. Nothing for it but to go back to sleep. Hopefully things would be clearer in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't bemoan the lack of Vaas in this chapter; you'll see plenty of him (pun not intended) in the next one. As usual, comments and critiques are always welcome!
> 
> All being well, next chapter should be up between Thursday 12 and Monday 16. See you then!


	6. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN
> 
> The name Jacob Collins is a reference to a character in the TV series Trailer Park Boys.
> 
> \- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
> Track recommendation:  
> 1st part: Alberich “God and Faith”  
> \- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**CHAPTER 5**

If her captor wanted her to be more conversational, then more conversational she would try her best to be. Whatever got her by.

“Why are you writing a poem?” she managed, cautiously timid, remembering to keep her gaze steady.

“I lost a game of poker with my boys,” he replied with humorous resignation. “I know, Isabel-”

The sound of her name on his lips made Isabel shudder. In a strange way, it felt like a taunt, or even a sort of violation. It was the cherry on the frosting of dominance displays: not only was he physically stronger and much more capable than her; not only was he holding her captive; but he knew her name – her real name – and he could use it however he pleased. Use her own name against her. Yet she knew nothing so basic about him; he wouldn't even allow her that. It would have enraged her, too, were she not too frightened to let herself express anger. This man – this murderous, immoral stranger – had no right to know her name, or anything else about her, let alone address her by that name.

“-I know,” he jested. “I rule this fucking island, and my boys don't even let me win at poker? How fucking rude is that!” He chuckled, giving a dismissive wave of his right hand. “Nah, nah, I'm just kidding. It's all good. Everyone's gotta suck at something – even me. Yeah, I know, unbelievable as that seems. Hah. And unfortunately, I happen to suck at poker. It's the one thing I just...can't seem to get a handle on, you know? I love the game, and I don't always lose at it; but I never _win_. Anyway, the way it goes in my camp is that if you lose a game, you gotta close your eyes and stick your hand in the Penalty Hat. That's an official term, by the way: Penalty Hat. It's a baseball cap with loads of folded up notes in it, and on these notes are, as you've probably guessed, penalties for losing the game. So what do I get? Yeah – writing a poem. I've never written a poem before in my entire fucking life. I know my limitations.”

_Two, so far. Poker and poetry. Better believe I'm keeping count. Not that it would do me any good, but...._

“But isn't it fortuitous that the first time I have to, there's someone here to help me out? I think it's fate, Isabel.”

 _Isabel_. She wished he would stop saying that. Of all the things he could probably do to her, saying her name had to be the least painful; yet somehow the dark intimacy of it more than compensated for the lack of physical assault. She also wished he would shut up about fate, in jest or otherwise; she didn't want to even consider the possibility that some universal consciousness had planned for her to end up dying as a hostage on a pirate-ridden island in the middle of nowhere. Suffering was born out of bad luck, and unlucky coincidence. No-one was _meant_ to suffer; no omnipotent power would put someone on this Earth just to endure torment, surely?

A pause. Her turn, she guessed. She quickly deliberated a response, although the best she could come up with was “How... exactly... do you want me to help?”. All the same, she hoped her artificial willingness would help endear herself to him.

“Good!” he exclaimed, clicking his fingers and then pointing directly at her with both hands. “Initiative and attentiveness!” Another finger click. “That's what I like to see. I propose a situation, and you're already there with the questions. Boo-boom. Swift like a sniper. Tight tight tight.”

Isabel didn't know what to make of his response, let alone how to respond to it herself. It was impossible to tell whether he was joking or serious, friendly or mocking.

“I've... got nothing else to do,” she replied deferentially, forcing a neutral expression.

The Latino snorted. “Yeah, sorry about that. We do our best, but we just.. we can't keep you guys entertained all the time, you know? It's hard work. The important thing is, we're entertaining you now; I'm giving you my _personal attention_ , right now. I'm helping you, and you're helping me; like a... a symbiotic relationship, right?”

_Or host and parasite._

_But when you think about it, he_ is _helping you. He's making concessions for you all the time._

“So, anyway, this poem: no rules except that it's gotta be four stanzas- yes, I know they're called stanzas, and not verses; I read a book, once. Four stanzas, in English. That's all; because I like to give my boys a challenge, but not make things _too_ tough for them. I take it into consideration that most of them, like me, don't have a clue about poetry.”

_A comedian; a self-effacing guy; and a humanitarian too? Where does this almighty brilliance end?_

_At poker and poetry, apparently._

“So I spent about an hour on it, and I got four stanzas, but... I'm just not content with it. See, my dilemma is that I'm a perfectionist. I work out every day, without fail. I keep myself clean and hygienic; and I floss – I always floss. I make sure my hair looks good; my facial hair's always tidy. I take care of all that man-scaping business the pansy metrosexuals go for. I keep hydrated. And I never, never, forget my vitamins; seriously, don't underestimate the benefits of proper nutrition. Because, you know, I take pride in my body and my appearance.”

_If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were trying to impress me._

_Wait- I don't._

It seemed unlikely that her captor would want to actually impress her. He had no reason to; and although she wasn't hideous, Isabel had to admit she was no knockout beauty either. Men hardly fell at her feet; least of all men with standards as high as her captor. Showing off seemed more in keeping with him.

 _It's not as if he doesn't have a reason to show off,_ chimed the snarky voice. _Talking purely objectively, of course._

 _Excuse me?!_ Isabel nearly choked at her own thoughts. She wasn't sure how that particular train of thought had managed to resurface; only that it was a train that urgently needed derailing. Grateful though she was for the unfathomable clarity, she knew she shouldn't even be able to think objectively in a situation like this at all. At this point, she should feel nothing more for her captor than negative emotions. Stockholm syndrome didn't set in this quickly, did it? She shoved the feeling away with as much force as she could muster.

“And I take equal pride in my work. But the thing is, this poem just doesn't meet my own standards. I could throw it out rough, and no-one else would give a fuck, frankly; but I wouldn't be happy, you know? I'd always be thinking I could've done better. And seeing as I only get one shot at this, I might as well make it a good one, no?”

Isabel nodded to show that she was following.

“So-” he slapped his palms on his upper legs, “Oat!” He followed the name with a shrieking wolf whistle. “Come and do the honors!”

A short, robust young man strode over from his post left of the cages. Like most of his comrades, a khaki bandana covered the lower half of his face, with a rolled up red one partially obscuring his forehead. From what she could see of him, he looked Thai; although she was hardly the expert on south east Asians. The man produced his own set of keys from his cargo pants' pocket, letting himself into the cage and then unceremoniously divesting Isabel of her bindings. He exited and locked the cage with equal lack of ceremony, before sitting on the ground, exhaling heavily and closing his eyes. In the combination of dimming natural light, and harsh artificial one, Isabel took a moment to study the man's face. No lines, wrinkles, or any other giveaways of ageing. What he did look, however, was tired. East Asians and their good genes notwithstanding, this man appeared to be no more than mid teens.

“Uh- Oat, my friend,” the Latino trilled, in English, “do you know what a space invader is?”

The man's eyes opened, darting nervously from side to side, then settling on his lap.

“Then quit being one. Your post is over there.” He motioned with his head.

“Sorry, Boss,” he enunciated faintly, in a voice that sounded barely broken, as his gaze connected with his superior's. “I'm just really tired.”

Isabel was almost shocked to hear his voice. This really _was_ a kid. A well-built kid, but a youngster nonetheless. She didn't want to even begin contemplating how someone of such a tender age had ended up here; it was wrong on too many levels. These were the sort of horrors you only saw in the media – pirates; child fighters; hostages; human trafficking; and Heaven only knew what else – the type of things that only happened to people several steps removed from yourself. That she, a citizen of a prosperous first world country, could be there witnessing them with her own eyes, seemed too absurd to be real; almost as if all she had to do was close her eyes, and when she opened them, she would wake up in her makeshift bed, in her makeshift hotel, on Palau Samalona. Almost. Right now she felt like the most naïve, cosseted fool alive. She, and her first world problems.

“Not my problem, Oat,” snipped the Latino. “You knew what you signed up for. If you don't like it, I'm sure there's a space at the rent boy brothel for you. You're virgin territory just _waiting_ to be plundered.” He rounded the exchange off with a kissy face; clearly not to hammer his point home, but perhaps to kick the poor kid when he was down... or toughen him up. Or both.

For a moment, the minion seemed on the verge of tears; but, noticing Isabel watching him, he swallowed his emotion, then promptly stood up, dusted himself off, and trudged back to his post. Isabel didn't realise she had been holding her breath until she found herself exhaling.

 _That poor kid,_ she thought, despairingly, although trying not to show it.

“So,” her captor announced, switching back to Spanish, “bind free! How does it feel? Good, huh?”

Isabel gave a diminutive nod, and an equally diminutive “Thank you.”

Her captor smiled wryly. “You're welcome. Normally we keep hostages tied up; but it's not every day we get ones like you, so...”

 _Ones like me? Or ones with my particular acumen?_ The former sounded as ominous as it did encouraging. No – he was probably just referring to her initials, and/or her ethnicity.

_But what about those “fucking binary” and “fearful symmetry” things? And that look? What the fuck was that look anyway?!_

She was beginning to panic again. She had to calm down.

_Deep breath. You can do this._

“You know, I bet I can guess what you're thinking right at this very moment; and I want you to tell me if I'm correct. Right now, I bet you're thinking that never in a million fucking years would studying English literature turn out to be this useful. Brutal honesty, please.”

Although she made no sound, the flash of surprise in her eyes obvsiously betrayed her. Because whether by fate, freakish coincidence, luck, or some sort of arcane synchronicity, the man was correct. Not just correct, but dead-on accurate, as if he had reached into her mind and pulled out that exact string of words.

No. It was a coincidence; these things happened all the time, for no reason. There was no way he was actually in her head. Yet, she still couldn't shake off that rattled feeling.

“Knew it!” her captor rejoiced, jabbing his right index finger in her direction. He chuckled smugly. “I'm good with people, like that. Call it a knack.”

_Oh, you're certainly good with people. Next to your minions you're an absolute gentleman._

“Aww, Isabel, come on; it was just a party trick. Kind of. You can smile now. Come on, give me a smile! It's not gonna kill you. Let's see a lovely big smile; it'll make you feel better, I promise. OK, OK, listen to this song:” He cleared his throat, continuing, in English, “ _You've gotta face disaster with a smile, keep on laughing all the while. When you're shot in the head, don't fall down dead; just pick up your face and smile smile smile. Pick up your face and smiiiiiiiile!"_ He switched back to Spanish: "There, don't you feel better now?”

 _Nope. I'm actually legitimately disturbed now,_ said Isabel's thoughts.

“I really don't think you're going to need my help with that poem,” said Isabel's voice, dryly.

Her tormentor cackled, hazel eyes gleaming in the light in a way that made him seem otherworldly. He reached into his jeans' pocket, retrieving a folded sheet of white paper, then extended his right arm through the bamboo bars, indicating for Isabel to take the offering. With more caution than was necessary, she scooted toward him on her backside, then reached forward and took the note.

She was about to scoot back to her original spot, but something – something about being in closer proximity to her captor – stopped her, and she remained there, less than a foot away from him. It made no sense, and she didn't like it – no, it was downright _wrong;_ what she _should_ want is to run from this man, put as much distance between herself and him as humanly possible – but for the life of her, she couldn't fight it. Perhaps she was getting high off his marijuana perfume, or the airborne remnants of whatever other illegal substances he had dancing around merrily in his bloodstream? His profession and behavior alone spoke to the likelihood of him being a coke user at the very least. Yeah, it had to be the drugs... or she could just go on trying to delude herself.

She unfolded the note, revealing a handwritten, surprisingly legible piece of work in blue biro.

 

* * *

 

“Isabel,” came a stern whisper, “I don’t know what you find so interesting over there, but it’s not enough to warrant absent-mindedness when there are CUSTOMERS to be served.”

_Curses! Foiled again! Hah._

She’d been caught doing the blank-eyed thing. With her back still turned, she narrowed her eyes and secretly wished she had a remote control with which she could switch Phil – the assistant manager – off, despite him having a fully valid point. This was work after all; she shouldn’t have been daydreaming in the first place. But it wasn't his authority she opposed, despite him being six years her junior and behaving another six years below that; neither was it being caught shirking her responsibilities. It was his uncanny knack of catching her during those sparse, precious moments between the flurry of customers, when she could afford herself just a moment to breathe. Isabel wasn't a slacker, but thanks to preternatural bad luck, she wouldn't even blame Phil if he believed to the contrary. Good thing he had to answer to Sava, or else she might have been out of a job by now.

“Sorry, Phil,” she apologized, standing to attention at the front of the counter. Fortunately there were no customers to be served; only a load browsing.

Cleo sidled up to her, an eager glint in her big blue eyes. _Oh no,_ Isabel thought, _she’s gonna start talking about the car journey home and how she thinks we should make it a regular thing._

It was beginning to dawn on Isabel that yesterday she may have made a wholly regrettable decision. After waking up, and feeling somewhat dazed, she had thought it safer not to drive, even if she could have gotten her car working. Getting to work wasn't the issue; it was the return journey that set her paranoia off afresh. Taking a cab more than once a week would be too costly, unless she made sacrifices elsewhere, so she had no choice but to approach Sava. Sava, it turned out, was too busy even for small talk, leaving her with only one option – Cleo; because she knew Tom even less, and Phil split his time between the airport's two franchises – even though she had no clue where Cleo lived.

Although Isabel's house was well out of her way, the girl had been more than obliging. The problem was, fate had decided to play its almighty Sucks To Be You card, and it just so happened that Cleo was picking up her boyfriend on the way back, too. That boyfriend, looking every inch the _Trailer Park Boys_ extra, had been blind drunk, and insistent on trying to 'joke fondle' Isabel from the back seat of the car. Cleo had told her he was like that with everyone when drunk; Isabel still didn't dislike it any less.

“Tyler likes you,” she said, perkily, “he thinks you’re like, the funniest person he’s ever met!”

Isabel was surprised the guy could even remember what he did last night, let alone her. She was even more surprised that he liked her. She didn't recall doing anything remarkable enough to make an impression, positive or negative.

“His best friend, Kevin, is single, you know. Maybe I could play matchmaker for you two? He's a great guy.”

“It’s a nice idea,” Isabel began, “and I appreciate you thinking of me, Cleo – really, I do. But I just...”

_I don't want a relationship; least of all one with Jacob Collins._

“Izzz-zyyyy…” Cleo coaxed, adopting a gooey, puppy-dog-eyed look.

 _Oh God,_ Isabel had opened up Pandora’s box, hadn't she?

“Just say you’ll meet him. You really _will_ like him. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

_I wouldn’t lie to you either, Cleo; your boyfriend is a drunken waste of space, and the feeling between him and myself is definitely not mutual. Please excuse me if I don't trust your judgment._

“Like I said, Cleo, it’s a really nice thought; but I’m just... I'm not up for meeting anyone right now.”

“It’s only casual,” the girl persisted. “I’m not gonna make you marry him or anything!”

“Casual or not, I’m not really interested.”

“Why not?”

Did the girl not comprehend the meaning of “no”; or did she receive some sort of commission for pairing her friends and colleagues off? Or, worse yet, did she make it her mission to, because she felt it her duty to 'rescue' poor singleton souls from their poor singleton misery?

“I’m just not, Cleo. I really do appreciate you thinking of me, though.”

Cleo lowered her voice to a whisper, wearing a conspiratorial expression. “You’re not a lesbian, are you?”

_Yes Cleo, I’m a lesbian, and I’m gonna eat you out for breakfast. Ha fucking ha._

“Not that I'm aware.”

_Hello, customers? Would somebody buy something please? Save me from this crazy, relationship-obsessed girl! Anyone? Anyone at all?_

“Did someone say lesbians?” Phil said in a hushed voice, looming in from behind the duo. Isabel jumped, having thought he had returned to his office. He must have been right behind them to have heard Cleo's whispering. “I like lesbians.”

_Well, you did ask to be 'saved'._

“Shut up, Dr. Phil,” Cleo retorted with mock haughtiness, “we weren’t talking to you!”

“Doesn't matter,” he responded genially. “I _am_ the assistant manager, and that gives me the right to eavesdrop on my subordinates' conversations.”

“Perv,” Isabel parried him. Despite barely knowing anything about the guy, Isabel was at least on informal enough terms with him to get away with jokey backchat.

“That's Mr. Perv, to you. Now, what were you saying about lesbians?”

“None of your business, Mr. Perv.” Isabel folded her arms, in a gesture of defiance.

“I have ways of making you talk,” Phil said slyly, “and I will employ them until you do! Muahaha!”

“Then I resign. If it's between minimum wage and having you in my fucking ear, Dr. Phil.”

The young man shrugged. “Your loss. There’s plenty of people ready to take your job. And I’m sure there are plenty of other employers who’ll tolerate an absent-minded daydreamer like you for more than three shifts.”

His line of response brought a very particular voice back to her; words that no amount of alcohol or mood altering prescription drugs could erase: _“_ _You knew what you signed up for. If you don't like it, I'm sure there's a space at the rent boy brothel for you. You're virgin territory just waiting to be plundered.”_

Suddenly, she didn't feel like joking any more.

“I was only joking,” she said.

“And so was I. You can’t take jokes, can you, Izzy?”

_No, I can't, you patronising son-of-a-monkeyspank._

“I’m just socially inept.”

“Only sometimes.” He smiled, chuckling. “But you have been daydreaming more often recently. Is there something on your mind?”

The young man looked genuinely interested, causing Isabel to feel taken aback. Of all the people she expected to feel concerned for her wellbeing, Phil wasn't the one. The guy seemed too immature for such a level of observance. It seemed beyond remarkable that he had even reached the station of assistant manager in the three years he'd been working there. So appearances could be deceptive after all?

She forced a smile. “I'm fine. Haven't been sleeping well is all.”

“Chamomile tea,” Cleo chirped. “Always works for me.”

“Or magnesium oil spray,” Phil added. “My mom uses that to help her sleep. It's great.”

_Wow, Phil. And they say Your 24 don't take care of their employees._

“I'll give them both a try,” Isabel responded, forcing a yawn. “Thank you.”

“Let me know how you get on,” said Phil. “Now, Isabel, Cleo, as much as I adore perving on your conversations about all matters lesbian, there are beings known as _customers;_ and they are here on a mission to _spend money._ And it is _our_ mission to be at their _service_ , understand?”

Cleo rolled her eyes dramatically.

“And when one of them comes to the counter, that's exactly what we'll do,” Isabel quipped.

“Fantastic!” Phil exclaimed joyously, clapping his hands once and clasping them, before briskly striding off.

At his hand gesture, a wave of nausea swept through Isabel's body, so strong that for an instant it seemed to make the world spin. She noticed things now – little details and quirks that reminded her of _him_. Gestures; turns of phrases; eye colors; hairstyles; accents; she had seen him everywhere, in people of all demographics. Sometimes it made her wonder if she was, indeed, losing her mind. It wasn't just the experience that had changed her; it was him. He had infected her, like a parasitic protozoan that even a motherload of Malarone couldn't slay. She was sick because of him. She was sick because of her own damned self – because she had let him in. Because she had _wanted_ to let him in.

“So, Izzy,” Cleo began again, “do you wanna meet Kevin, yeah?”

Had the girl been listening to a word Isabel had said?

“Really, I’m fine. Thanks all the same.”

“OK well, how about-”

“Cleo!”

Her colleague ignored her. “Listen, Izzy. Just hear me out, please? Just say you’ll accept a lift home next week, and I’ll ask Tyler to bring him along, and you can meet him then and judge for yourself?”

_No. Just leave me alone. Disappear. Resign. Whatever. Do I have to plant crack cocaine on you and get you fired to make you drop this stupid fucking subject?!_

Isabel sighed. It seemed increasingly apparent that now there would be no possible way out of this; the more she declined, the more Cleo would plead. She hadn't just opened Pandora's box; she had opened all of LeMarchand's boxes, too, and the only spell to close the damn things would be to capitulate to the girl's pleas. Growing a backbone seemed like a better option, but she was just too tired right now. Too damn tired. So instead, she acquiesced with an impassive “OK then.”

Cleo whooped. Isabel turned her head so that Cleo couldn't see her close her eyes-

-and open them to see the Somali man standing directly outside the shop, eyes fixed on her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN 2:  
> Next chapter in anything from 1-3 weeks. See you then!


	7. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:
> 
> 1\. Anyone seen Neil Blomkamp's latest movie, Chappie? If not, I'd recommend checking it out, if only for Hugh Jackman's somewhat Vaas-like antagonist. As Blomkamp is a gamer, and Michael Mando apparently made an appearance in Elysium (although he's more difficult to find than poor McLovin in the sand, and Where's Waldo, combined), it's not too far of a stretch to imagine Blomkamp's familiar with the Far Cry series. 
> 
> 2\. WARNING: POTENTIAL TRIGGERS FOR: religious sensitivities; abortion. I hasten to add that the views expressed regarding these matters are those of my characters, and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of yours truly. 
> 
> 3\. Credit to tumblr user melthesomebody for the hilarious poem (well, most of it; I've changed a tiny bit of it.). 
> 
> \- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
> Track recommendations:  
> 2nd part: Øfdream “Ninth Gate”  
> \- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**CHAPTER 6**

Isabel jumped, her breath snagging on some invisible fish-hook that had materialized in her throat. Her heart, too, paused in blind anticipation. The Somali held her gaze. She tried to blink, but failed, body and mind paralysed except for concentrating solely on the dark brown eyes commanding her own. A protracted instant later, the man looked away, leisurely continuing past the shop and out of view. The paralysis lifted, and albeit only for a moment, the urge to leap the counter and pursue him – like an accomplished gymnast, or nimble character from an action movie – nearly took over; an urge so strong, the near lack of control frightened her. Momentarily, it occurred to her that this might be the type of feeling paranoid schizophrenics experienced when they heard voices inside their heads, telling them to hurt others, hurt themselves, or to kill.

 _Stop it, right now,_ interjected her voice of reason. _Calm down, Izzy. Keep it together. You are not mentally ill. You are not schizophrenic. Coincidences happen, often in numbers; this was just one of many._

Her sensibility was right, of course. The amount of times she had been stuck in a traffic jam, or waiting at traffic lights, and accidentally made eye contact with someone in the car next to her, was testament to that. She had even bumped into an ex-classmate from eighth grade, three years later when vacationing in Vancouver. These things happened. This Somali guy was simply a repeat customer who had merely thrown a casual glance in Isabel's direction at exactly he same time as she had looked in his direction. There was no grander plan to these events. Possibly, although unlikely, like the south east Asian man the other day, he could have been harboring a crush on her. Perhaps some guys found chubby, tired-looking Latinas attractive? Two in the same week seemed a bit of a stretch, but not outright impossible.

 _That's my answer, and I'm sticking to it,_ she thought with renewed resolve. She had to get on top of these wayward feelings and fears before they consumed her entirely and she ended up committed to a psychiatric ward. Things were challenging enough as it was, without her paranoia chipping in. She wasn't going to ask Sava or Cleo for a lift home tonight; no, she was damn well going to use the same public transport she had arrived by, and nothing untoward was going to happen to her. She had to make herself believe it. She had to stay strong.

The sound of Phil clearing his throat floated over from behind Isabel, causing both her and Cleo to turn and look. He nudged in between the two females, brandishing a horrendously cheeky grin. Isabel knew that look well, and in Phil's case, it could mean only one thing: he had news. Specifically, gossip. For a heterosexual man, he sure loved to run his mouth behind the scenes.

“Let me guess,” Isabel began, “you just walked in on Sava dressed as a dominatrix?”

“Nope,” her superior replied, still grinning.

“OK… Random guess: Priscilla just texted you and told you she's pregnant; and this so-called 'looking after her son' business yesterday was really just because she had morning sickness?”

“So she texted you as well?”

Isabel blinked, confused. “She hasn't told me anything.”

“Then how did you know?”

She shrugged, feeling both quite pleased with herself, and more than a touch disconcerted. “You're serious? I made a wild guess and just happened to be right?”

“Yup.” He seemed sincere.

“You've got psychic powers, Izzy,” Cleo remarked.

Isabel stared at her feet, feeling freaked out. She inhaled deeply, then brought her gaze back up. “And you're telling us this, because...?”

“Because she's pregnant by my older brother. Remember I told you they were dating?”

Cleo stifled a giggle. Isabel just raised her eyebrows. “I don't remember.”

“Yeah, I told you, about two months ago; but they've been 'unofficially' dating for half a year now. Priscilla's not exactly been keeping it a secret.”

Oh Lord. Priscilla, and Phil's brother; herself, and Cleo's boyfriend's best friend, if Cleo had her way – this was turning into a goddamn sitcom. _Your 24: A Family-Run Enterprise!_

“Must've passed me by,” she said. Things had a habit of doing that. “Anywho... congratulations, I guess?”

“Thank you. And by the way, did you know that so-called ‘morning sickness’ does not usually occur in the morning?”

“No I didn’t, Dr. Phil,” she lied, “but thanks for enlightening me. You obviously know a great deal more about women’s issues than you let on.”

“How very perceptive of you.”

She flinched internally. Phil's response sounded like something _he_ would have said.

“If you've got a girlfriend,” she replied, faking geniality, “she's a very lucky chick.”

“She is indeed. She also happens to be a complete bitch, which is why I’m planning to split up with her.”

“Fair enough. I’ve never met her, so I can’t really comment.”

“You have met her. She’s standing next to you!”

An awkward one second pause followed, before Cleo thwacked her superior on the upper arm, giggling.

“You wish!” she retorted, laughing incredulously.

Isabel had lied to Phil, both directly and by omission. Because no-one knew about the abortion two years ago; not even Claudia.

Getting the IUD proved to be an exercise in irony as much as futility. Some people had 'BandAid Babies'; eight months before that final vacation, Isabel got a 'BandAid IUD'. Adam had never been keen on condoms; and Isabel didn't trust the withdrawal method, having accidentally conceived with Adam twice that way. The contraceptive pill was out, too, due to a family history of gynaecological cancers - didn't want to empt fate, was what she had always reasoned. So, up into the intimate feminine area went the little t-shaped device, the little inverted middle finger to pregnancy. Yet, it also seemed to give the inverted middle finger to Adam's desire, the amount of excuses he made to avoid coitus with her; and when they did get down to it, no amount of dirty talk, kinky shenanigans or other sexual aides could enhance what ended up as a loveless, mechanical duty. Adam had lost interest; and if Isabel had to be honest, she wasn't far behind.

That was the futility.

The irony happened later. Three weeks after her escape, she missed a period, but put it, and various other symptoms, down to stress. Stress gave you nausea, made you lose your appetite, and thus fatigued you. Stress put you off caffeine, alcohol, and any strong-tasting food. Stress made you pee more often. It heightened your response to pain, too, and probably even made your nipples tingly and sore. Besides, IUDs carried a 99% success rate, she had been told. Then she missed a second period, and the nausea continued to worsen; yet, despite the lack of food, she had begun to gain weight. Her scepticism and disbelief turned to shock a week later, when the five pregnancy tests she had purchased all displayed the same result. Three celibate months and two menstrual cycles until her split from Adam meant it couldn't be his; and, since Adam, there had only been one person – the one person who had captured her, and then let her escape.

That was the irony.

By that time, she was eleven weeks pregnant, and it would be twelve by the time she organized an appointment at a women's clinic. Twelve, she learned, was when the embryo became a foetus, ergo the cut-off period for 'simple' abortions – pills to induce miscarriage. Even so, she learned with dismay, having an IUD would have exempted her from that method, too. She would have to get the foetus MVA'd – 'manually vacuum aspirated'. Unpleasant, but necessary; she was in no position to bring a child into the world, even less raise one. A child who, through no fault of their own, would never know their father – would never even know the truth about their father. Neither was it worth the hassle she would receive from her mother for choosing to abort again, regardless of the circumstances. The two abortions during her relationship with Adam had put enough strain on familial relations as it was.

Of course, there were the last minute nerves, the temptation to cancel, even though she knew, as she had always known, that there was never any other alternative. The blades of emotion kept whirring steadily, like a windmill, round and round and round, from the moment she left the house until the time she entered the smiley, bright clinic, where she voicelessly screamed at them to cease. Twelve weeks was double that of the previous two abortions; the foetus, albeit still tiny, no longer resembled an alien-looking blob, she recalled from biology class. She thought of what her mother would say if she found out; even the pro-lifers, who she felt so at odds with, managed to sneak a fractious snippet in. Twice, she nearly backed out.

Selfishly or not, it wasn't the prospect of killing or saving a life that cemented her decision; it was the idea of seeing _him_ every day in that child's face, in eyes that she felt certain would be just like his own: hazel-green, with emerald limbal rings. Every look would serve as a reminder of her mistake, her weakness, her crime of wanting someone and something that should have utterly repelled every fiber of her being. An innocent child did not deserve to be resented for their mother's crimes, and if Isabel could only do one thing right in this whole sordid mess, it would be to spare her unborn son or daughter that fate.

So she went through with it, hoping and praying that somehow it would bring her closure; and in the two weeks of pain and bleeding that followed, it did. But the lull of safety didn't last – in the darkest recesses of her mind, she knew it never could, because although her body had escaped, mentally she hadn't escaped at all.

* * *

She read the first stanza:

 _I go by the meadow, my head up high_  
_I see a Rakyat in the background, he needs to fucking die_  
_I put my hands in the water, relief is all I need_  
_I'm getting fucking bored now, fuck I need some weed._

Having learned a smattering of Indonesian before arriving, she knew that 'rakyat' meant 'people/person' in both Indonesian and Malay. She guessed said people weren't too happy with the pirates' invasion of their territories, and having to comply with them too, no doubt. The man whose boat had brought her here had probably done so under extreme duress.

 _I go off to my compound, I play poker with my men_  
_It's a fun and crazy night_  
_I will...fucking kill everything if I lose again!!_

At the third line, she couldn't help but chuckle aloud. Although the rhythm was off, the comedy was on point; presuming, of course, that he was only joking. On second thoughts, perhaps he wasn't?

She heard brief fumbling, followed by the distinctive scent of cigarette smoke. She wondered momentarily whether he would oblige her if she asked for a drag, or whether he would consider it a step too far? She wanted to test his limits, see what she could get away with. Perhaps it would give her something to work with? Then again, his mood seemed erratic; there was no telling whether what was permissible one moment would irritate him the next. Best to play it safe.

 _I wanna write a poem, and put everyone to shame_  
_But if anything rhymes with poem I don't know its fucking name..._

He had a point – what single word did rhyme with 'poem'?

 _No, seriously, what the fuck rhymes with poem?_  
_I'm sorry, but what FUCKING rhymes with it?_  
_No no no no please, this is fucking bullshit._  
_Who can write these fucking things?!_

Keeping her eyes cast downwards, she tried to suppress further laughter, but failed miserably. To her captor's credit, it was a genuinely funny attempt. He clearly did possess a talent for comedy – even if most of it happened to be at his victims' expense, she guessed.

“You know,” she said, her gaze meeting his, “I had no idea what to expect, but this is actually really good. Not just for a first attempt; it's good in its own right.”

“Really?” he said, tilting his head slightly, but otherwise expressionless.

She nodded. “It's humorous; all the parts that are meant to rhyme, rhyme well; but best of all, it's not pretentious.”

He straightened up, taking a long drag of his cigarette, seemingly waiting for her to elaborate.

Fortunately, she could almost rely on her auto-pilot to take over verbally; that part was a cinch. The difficult part was doing so while connected to his mesmeric line of vision. She endeavored: “A lot of amateurs make the mistake of throwing in lots of big words, or formal turns of phrase, to make their poem sound intelligent; but really it has the opposite effect, and it just looks stilted, like they're trying too hard. For example, which sounds better: “I don't understand you”, or “I fail to grasp what you are attempting to impart to me”? The first one, right? You've kept yours conversational throughout, which feels more natural, and works better when you switch to free verse in the last stanza.”

_Well, that went swimmingly. See what you can accomplish when you try, eh?_

“OK,” he said coolly, “so that's what's right with it. What about what's wrong?”

She cast a cursory glance at the paper again, and then back up at her captor, struck again by the twinkle of his eyes in the mixture of natural and artificial light. This wasn't right at all – she had been acquainted with this man for less than half an hour in total, and she knew next to nothing about him except that he was trouble personified; she shouldn't feel the incomprehensible urge to want to stay tethered to him, or to lose herself in his gaze. There was something wrong with her. She wasn't sure whether she believed in love at first sight; although if there was such a thing, it didn't happen in situations like this... and even in the highly unlikely event that it did, it was never so soon. Perhaps if, or when – she hoped the former – he dropped the Good Cop act, she would return to her senses? There was also the video of whatever fate had befallen poor Martin; albeit not the kind of wake up call she would ever have wanted, hopefully that alone would be enough to bring her back to reality.

“I, um...” she ventured tentatively, “I wasn't done complimenting you-” fuck, “-it – your work – yet.” He arched an eyebrow, causing what little moisture remained in her mouth to evaporate on the spot, and her throat to constricted a little. She strove: “You wanted a... thorough appraisal... right?”

The Latino took another prolonged drag, drawing Isabel's attention to his lips, and the gentle pressure they were exerting on the cigarette. Would he suck her fingers like that, she found herself wondering, against her own will? Maybe if she could be bold enough to ask for some food – something sticky, like a piece of fruit – she would find out? As if on cue, her stomach rumbled audibly, loud enough for both of them to hear it, and to wrench her from her short reverie.

For crying out loud, stop it! Were the pieces of her sanity crumbling by the minute?

_Hi Izzy! This is your sanity speaking.I am officially taking leave as from now. Nice knowing ya, kid. Toodles!_

“Go on,” he drawled.

She realized then that in fact, she was indeed thirsty _and_ hungry. Thirst, she could comprehend; but how she could be hungry at a time like this defied logic.

“I'm sorry,” she said, her tone meek, and her expression to match, “but could you-” her breath hitched at the sight of him taking another drag, “-would you be kind enough-”

“Get you something to eat? Drink?” The bastard was smirking.

She mustered a nod.

“Both?”

Another nod, followed by an almost voiceless “Thank you.”

“Oat!” he yelled, in English. “Get our lady friend a protein bar, a banana, and a liter bottle of water! Tout fucking suite!”

Isabel watched as the beleaguered kid exited the scene in a brisk jog. She thanked her captor for the second time.

“Gotta take care of what's valuable, Isabel,” he said wryly, finally changing his position from a crouch to a cross legged sit, so that he was now on a more even level to his captive. He inhaled sharply on his cigarette, then let the smoke filter through his parted lips, towards her, so that she couldn't avoid inhaling it herself.

_Second-hand smoke is even more damaging than first-hand smoke, you know._

_What's that supposed to mean?_

“So,” he continued, “you weren't done complimenting my poem?” He shot her a smug grin.

“I'm not saying it's perfect,” she managed, still surprised she could muster any articulacy at all, “but very few things are. For what it is, it works, absolutely. It hits all the right notes for humor, and honestly I love how the fourth stanza turns into this free verse internal monologue. Besides, you make a very valid point: to my knowledge there is no single, two syllable word, in the English language, that rhymes with 'poem'.”

“Is that so?”

“To the best of my knowledge, the closest single word you can get is 'Jeroboam'; but that's four syllables.”

“So, that's the acid test for English Lit teachers? They can fire you on the spot if you don't know that, eh?”

She chuckled. “Well, I guess they could chastise you.”

He chuckled, too, seemingly devoid of any pretense. It could almost have been a moment shared between two friends, or even people on a first date, in a world away from here.

“Anything else is two words or more,” she continued, “one of which will probably be a contraction of the word 'them'. For example: “show 'em”; “throw em”; “know 'em”.”

“OK. But how do I improve the poem?”

“Overall, or specifically?”

“You're the English teacher. I'll let you decide.”

“Depends how technical you want to get, and how much you're willing to sacrifice. Personally I think... I think you have to find your own balance between adhering to the rules, and doing things your own way. On one end of the scale, you could follow every rule in the book and come out with something technically flawless, but hollow. On the other end-”

“I don't want you to weigh out the pros and cons of each alternative-” Panic spiked in Isabel's chest, hot and tight. Although his manner seemed calm, the fact of her having said something that displeased the unpredictable man set her nerves racing once more. “-I'm asking for your informed opinion on what I should do.”

Isabel paused, counting her blessings that her captor's temper hadn't exploded. Thinking on her feet had never been her strongest suit; so, unable to muster any other response than the one she had originally been heading towards, she continued, with a duly cautious tone: “OK- I'm gonna sound like Mr. Miyagi here, but the thing is, only you can decide what to do. You're not being graded. You're not trying to win a competition. Do you want to start the poem again, from scratch, and make it the most technically perfect poem possible; or do you want to make a few modifications to what you've already got, which won't be technically perfect, but will...uh...keep the essence of the original poem intact? Honestly, I'd go with the latter. If I was still an English Lit teacher, and you were one of my students, I might say differently; but we're not. We're in a different circumstance, and the rules can't always apply. So really, it's not up to me; it's up to you.”

He regarded her, looking contemplative. Another puff on the cigarette. Another noxious cloud, infusing into her personal space. “You know what?” he announced, resolutely, with a finger jab towards her. “I value your judgment. So, I'm gonna go with what you suggested.” She responded by way of a nod. “OK, so what do I do?”

* * *

 

“See?” she mumbled aloud to herself as she locked the door behind her. “Told you you'd be fine.”

Indeed, just as her rational side had told her, the journey home had played out as uneventfully as ever... unless she could count the random thought that had snuck in as the airport bus had pulled away, bound for Etobicoke. As the night-veiled scenery rolled by, it occurred to her how many times she had looked out of bus, train and car windows, day and night, to and from her workplace, thinking and feeling absolutely nothing because she knew the route by heart. The same route, on an infinite loop. Yet it seemed as if she had been complacent before, negligent even; and that now, for whatever reason, she felt differently. There seemed to be an odd sort of newness to the sprawling city and its suburbs, and the flash of vehicles passing by; and she found herself noticing small elements, captivated by every tiny detail, that had been lackadaisically ignored before.

Her paranoia had tapped on the window, gently but insistently wrap-wrap-wrapping until she gave it an audience. _They say your life flashes before your eyes when you're in a near death situation, it whispered, but you know, that's not really what happens. What does happen is you notice things you never noticed before, like you'd unlocked another 20% of your brain. Everything seems so much more alive and vibrant. It's because your subconscious is making you appreciate what's left of life whilst you still can._

 _Good thing I'm not about to die then, isn't it,_ she snipped, imagining herself pulling a curtain across the window.

She slung her bag down on the sofa, switched on the TV, then shuffled into the kitchen. Having no time for food breaks during her shift was common, and so, by the time she got home, she was so famished and zombified that she would eat just about anything. Often she just grabbed some cutlery, and the closest readily-edible thing, unconcerned for the taste and nutritional value, or lack thereof. It was by this merit that she ended up back on the sofa, watching the 24-hour news, with an assortment of edible oddities unceremoniously dumped on the coffee table in front of her. This time, she hadn't even paid attention what they were. Only when she reached forward to grab one, did she notice just how strange tonight's selection was: a chocolate bar, unopened; a tub of sandwich filler, opened; an apple, intact; a tub of Greek yogurt and honey, unopened; and a lemon.

She paused, wondering how the yogurt and the lemon had appeared there – she didn't recall having bought either of them.

_Hey there! Her paranoia chirped, beaming maniacally. Remember me?_

She forced it aside, commanding herself not to panic. There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. Her mother had her own key; perhaps she had stopped by today and deposited the items there? Maybe she had left a message on Isabel's phone, telling her so? She reached for her bag, fishing the device out and checking it. No texts. No answerphone messages.

_I'm still he-er!_

_Shut up._

If not her mother, then perhaps Claudia, who also had her own key? Simply come and gone and deliberately neglected to mention it, as per her pranks of yore? That seemed more likely, somehow; even if her sister resuming pranking again after the events of November 2012, and her slip up last Sunday, didn't seem likely. Logically, it had to be one of them; if someone had picked the lock and broken in, wouldn't there be other signs of a disturbance? Wouldn't her laptop, which remained on the coffee table, be missing?

She surveyed the menagerie again, curiously, as if one of them held a clue to unravelling the mystery. An errant thought suggested that if she had been pregnant, she could have got away with that combination. Perhaps she'd regale Phil with the gory details tomorrow, with a view to him passing it on to Priscilla? She dismissed it, preferring not to think about pregnancy if she could help it. What was done was done, and it had been for the best.

There was a very simple way to solve the mystery: at just gone midnight, her mother would be asleep, but there was a chance Claudia might still be up. She wouldn't be at her most obliging at this hour; but if she was the one playing the prank, then that was her problem. Even if she wasn't, when Isabel explained things to her, she would understand.

Isabel regarded the lemon.

_When life gives you lemons... “Don't make lemonade. Make life take the lemons back! Get mad! Demand to see life's manager!”_

Well, if that was good enough for Cave Johnson, it was good enough her her. She picked up her phone, tapping on Claudia's icon.

Ringing.

She chuckled, imagining if she had absent-mindedly tried to take a huge bite of the lemon. That would have been nasty.

Ringing.

She drummed her fingers impatiently on her upper leg, trying to psychically urge her sister to pick up.

Ringing.

In the grand scheme of things, if her sister didn't answer, it was no big deal.

_It's not like you're in any immediate danger, is it? I mean, someone's hardly broken into your house and left you some cryptic gifts, right? Wait- what if they're still here?_

Ringing.

_Shut up. Go away._

_Put the phone down. Grab a kitchen knife, and the pepper spray._

Ringing.

_In fact, don't. Just call the police instead. If someone's hiding in here, chances are they're better armed than you. Confronting them is just asking to get yourself killed._

_There is no-one here but me – get that into your thick head. If Claudia doesn't answer, that means she's asleep. I'll just text her, and she'll reply tomorrow._

_Yes, but wouldn't you rather know now? You'll stay awake worrying, otherwise._

_It's out of my hands._

_Speaking of hands, you might not have any before long. Or they may be 'tied'. Geddit? Tied? Hah._

Ringing.

“Hi, you've reached Claudia! Leave a message!”

“Fucksake,” Isabel grumbled, awaiting the beep. “Hey Claudia, it's me. I guess you're asleep right now; but if you're not, please call me back as soon as you get this message. I'm just- There's something I need to talk to you about. OK... bye.”

_Right. Now call the police._

_There's no need._

_Better safe than sorry._

_No. If they don't find anyone – which they won't, because there's no-one here but me – they'll think I'm crazy._

_But what if they do?_

_They won't._

_You're really going to go to bed, and go to sleep, with the possibility that you'll wake up seriously maimed, or not at all, are you? What if you wake up blind? Deaf? Your tongue cut out? Buried in a coffin? You really want to risk that?_

_I'm not risking anything – because nothing untoward is happening here._

_Remember the bus journey tonight?_

She paused. What if her subconscious really was one step ahead of her, sensing – knowing – that her life may soon be coming to an end? Or was that merely another coincidence, too? Perhaps her paranoia actually had a point, for once?

She inhaled slowly, staring at the Greek yogurt, then the lemon. Her appetite had vanished. She could stay up? Maybe fork out money to book a cab back to work, and stay there – sleep there if necessary? She would have to explain it to Sava, but he would understand, right? But what if he didn't? He might write her off as crazy, too. And if so, he might talk to her mother, which would open up a whole new can of worms. If she called the police, though, wouldn't they do the same?

This was a lose-lose situation. The only thing she felt, with growing certainty now, was that she couldn't ignore her fear. Better to be called crazy than to end up dead, or horrifically maimed.

She picked up the phone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN 2:  
> Next chapter in anything from 1-3 weeks. See ya'll then :)


	8. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
> Track recommendations:  
> 1st part: Orphyx “Cut Through”  
> 2nd part: SHXCXCHCXSH "LTTLWLF"  
> 3rd part: Slow Walkers “The Flood”  
> \- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**Chapter 7**

Isabel picked up the phone, quickly deliberating what to do. Get a cab, regardless of the money; the alternative wasn't worth the risk. Fortunately, she always carried around $100 in her wallet, in case of emergencies; her current situation constituted such an emergency. She would go to work and stay there – they couldn't turn her away if she told them what was happening. From work, she would call the police. She would tell them everything; from the driver who had cut her up last week, to the apparent intruder tonight, whether it made her sound crazy or not. And finally, she would vocalize the one suspicion – more a feeling than a concrete thought – that she hadn't allowed herself to address since the start of this strange elapse, for the illogical fear that giving that giving it form would have made it an actuality. She would address it because she couldn't run any more; but she would do it when the time came, and right now wasn't it.

The phone rang, startling her to the extent that she dropped the damn thing. Heart pounding, she grabbed the device, relief washing over her to see Claudia's name and number displayed. She swiped the screen, then raised it to her ear. Soon she would hear her sister's voice, and then maybe everything would be better? Maybe she wouldn't need to book that cab after all? Just one answer could potentially change everything.

“Claudia, thank fuck,” she panted, surprised by her own breathlessness. “Thank you so much for calling back. I'm- There's something that's... really worrying me.”

Silence on the other end.

“Claudia?”

More silence. Isabel's paranoia began tugging at its leash. Had they, or he – whoever they were – gotten her sister, too? The cinder block of dread reappeared, balancing precariously on the edge, threatening to pull her down into the unfathomable depths of an abyss deeper than any she had encountered yet. Killing or hurting her was one thing; doing so to any of her loved ones was worse. They were even less deserving than she of any of this.

Calm down. Calm down. It hasn't happened yet. Maybe she accidentally pressed the 'mute' button?

“Claudia, I think you pressed the 'mute' button. I can't hear you.”

Still nothing.

“OK, maybe it's a bad line? I'm going to put the phone down. Call me back from the-”

_Landline._

Isabel felt the color drain from her face. In the heat of the moment, she had forgotten one simple fact: whenever both Claudia and Isabel knew each other were at home – which, after work during the week, they invariably would be – they would always use the landline.

They had Claudia.

_No, no, no. Please no._

She drew a deep, trembling breath, then closed her eyes, uttering lowly, “You're not Claudia, are you?” It was more an affirmation than a question; and the moment she said it, she knew – knew, with steadfast conviction – that it was true.

Silence.

The cinder block toppled.

“Leave her alone!” Isabel screamed, with breath and might she didn't know she possessed, as if her protestation alone would make any sort of difference. It wouldn't, she knew; and with her bungalow not only being detached, but with her TV being on, too, there would be no neighbors coming to her own aid, either.

“Relájate, Isabel,” purred a familiar voice, from those pitch black depths... but not only on the other end of the line; directly behind her, too. Her heart stopped beating. Her breath stilled. Everything paused. “No es su teléfono.” _It's not her phone._ And with that, he ended the call.

Time continued.

He was here. Right here. It felt too far-fetched, too fantastical in the worst imaginable way, to be true; just like her ill-fated diversion from Samalona. It couldn't be happening. It wasn't happening... And yet, she knew it was real. An icy spider skittered its way up her spine. It was real. All of this...this madness...was fact, not imaginary. The bus journey home had been an omen, not a prank from her paranoia. She knew it now, just as she had forbid herself from admitting: it had been him all along. He had kept his word that she would never be safe. So much for not addressing that gut feeling of hers.

_Don't. Turn. Around._

How long had he been there; and how come she hadn't sensed him at all? Claudia sneaking up on her last week, when life had been comparatively OK, was one thing; but tonight, with her paranoia and nerves on red alert? Even with the TV on loud, wouldn't she have noticed even the slightest shuffle of feet? Wouldn't she have recognized the scents of marijuana and cologne that seemed nearly overpowering now? Yet, even if she had, what good would it have done? She couldn't have made it to the door in time, nor could she have fought him off, or fled without him catching up to her.

“Everyone's fine,” he continued matter-of-factly, in his native tongue. “And there's no reason for them not to be. I swear on your life.”

“Mi vida no vale nada para tí,” she murmured recklessly – _my life is worth nothing to you_ – choosing Spanish out of full cognizance that those words might be her last. 'Tí' – the familiar, second-person form of address; as opposed to 'usted' – its formal equivalent, conjugated as a third-person tense; except for in Colombia, where it was more common than the second-person form. He would probably know that, she reasoned; yet she had still chosen 'tí', because she wanted him to know, without a doubt... that he might as well have been a friend. He was the one who had kept her company these last two years, and she would bet good money he knew that, too.

“Now that's not true,” he replied, in an amused tone. “You think I would have gone to such lengths to meet you again, after two whole years, if your life was worthless to me?”

Two whole years, almost to the day, like a macabre anniversary.

“Qué conmovedor,” she deadpanned – how touching – astonishingly bold despite the fear. Perhaps because she wanted to tempt fate; or perhaps to fight back this time in the only way possible, defy him where before she could only comply? Or maybe, even, because she was reaching the point of resigning herself to whatever fate he had in store for her? Then again, the confidence could have been a blip, and for all she knew she could return to a timid, snivelling state at any moment.

He tittered; a mocking, acidic sound. “Oh, Isabel. I always liked your sense of humor.”

* * *

 

The ad-hoc poetry lesson transpired to be jarringly civil; more that of an informal chat between teacher and student, than captor and captive. Despite his headstrong demeanor, the Latino seemed to settle comfortably into the give and take of a normal discussion. He knew how to communicate like a reasonable human being, and, surprisingly, to defer when need be. He listened attentively, appearing to take genuine interest in what she had to say; he took advice; he didn't become defensive when his work came under scrutiny. He seemed, for all intents and purposes, strikingly affable; an attractive man with demonstrative hands, warm eyes, and a beguiling smile.

However, the ease of it all raised her suspicions. It all seemed like a false sort of calm – too perfect to be real, like the preternatural stillness between a thunder clap and its ensuing strike of lightning – and throughout, Isabel had to constantly battle the urge to let herself relax too much. The instant the 'lesson' finished, she would run out of use for him, and then he would have no reason to behave amicably towards her. Then, she expected, with mounting consternation, he might turn. After all, there was still that video awaiting her. Perhaps it would have been better if he had shown her only cruelty? At least then she would have had a clearer idea of where she stood. The 'nice' side of him, whether valid or fake, made the less than nice side seem even worse. It was like giving her hope, only to snatch it away – a simple mind game; but one that worked.

By the time they were halfway done, dusk had fully given way to night. In the pauses between conversation, Isabel heard crickets chirp close by, and the shrill cries of birds, carried light and free on the lilting breeze. Merriment was ensuing in the camp proper – raucous conversation; the clinking of glass bottles; the pounding bass of electronic music; the smells of meat and rice cooking, mingling with the fragrant sweetness of marijuana smoke. It felt unreal to be sitting here amongst all of this, and on a tropical island, underneath an indigo ink sky with its pinhole stars and spectacular full moon; hard to believe that it could be anything other than a pleasure trip.

“Right then, teach',” he announced, enthusiastically, folding up the piece of paper – now covered with scribblings in red biro, and the amended poem on the back – and sliding it into his the pocket of his jeans, “l'm gonna go and share this with the guys!” He picked up his phone, then sprang to his feet, spritely as a child. “And because you did such a good job, I'm not gonna tie you up. You're welcome – you're very welcome. If you need anything, ask Oat. He'll be your personal butler while I'm away. Ta-ta!”

Without even a moment's pause, he jogged off. For some reason, Isabel had expected a grander parting gesture. Then again, he wasn't bidding her adieu permanently, was he? He'd as much as indicated he would be back. With only the sound effects for company – she reckoned Oat wouldn't be the most talkative of moods – it felt palpably lonely. She knew it should have been the other way around; she should have welcomed the solitude and the freedom to breathe, away from those lucid, hazel eyes, and that voice with its deceptively honeyed timbre.

 _But he might not be so friendly when he returns; and there's still the video_. Besides, what could they even talk about, besides things she didn't want to hear? She should be enjoying these last moments of safety and relative calm while they lasted.

She glanced at the ground, where her rope bindings lay strewn. A lightbulb popped up in her mind – what if she could make use of them? Hide one of them in her hands, then call Oat over – he wasn't looking in her direction, currently; then, strangle him with one of them, find his keys, and escape? The space between the bars was wide enough to fit both arms through. She wouldn't have much leverage, but it was certainly enough if she played it right.

_Never strangled someone to death before? Hah! A mere technicality!_

Killing an innocent kid, who didn't seem cut out for the pirate life, and probably regretted being there, would no doubt play on her conscience; but, she reasoned, she might be doing him a favor. If he could avail himself to no better alternative than selling his orifices, what kind of life was that? Then again, perhaps he had a family to support, and his contribution to them from pirating – however meagre – meant the difference between survival and starvation? But, he could equally as well lose his life on pirating duties, couldn't he? It was a high risk job anyway; all Isabel might be doing was expediting the inevitable.

What if it went wrong, though; which, given Isabel's complete lack of experience in physical combat, and inferior strength to the stocky kid, was likely? And, supposing she managed to get it right somehow, what would she do then? Having been brought to her cell blindfolded, and what she estimated to be at least 10 minutes by car, she had absolutely no bearing on her location. It could have been a ruse – driving around in circles, and/or back and forth, to confuse the blinded captives into believing they were further away from the coast than they actually were; but it equally might not be. When approaching the island – which had turned out to be part of an archipelago – head on, it looked like the size of a small town; something she could get around in half an hour. But she hadn't seen behind it; it could have stretched back far longer than was visible. She was clueless as to its exact geography, and the perils that lurked therein. That the pirate hoards seemed concentrated in this camp, from what she could hear, didn't mean there weren't centuries or roving patrols dotted around the rest of the island.

Furthermore, how would she defend herself? From her general knowledge, she had recognized the weapon Oat carried – the visible one, at least – as an AK47; but she had no idea how to fire one. Oh, how joyous would it be to try her not-exactly-finely-honed hand-eye-coordination by putting the crosshairs on a hostile, squeeze the trigger... only to have a bullet fly 10 feet out, in the process dislocating her shoulder with the kickback of the weapon, and burning her hand on the discharged cartridge? Fun indeed, ha fucking ha. She'd be finished before the cartridge even hit the ground. If she was lucky enough to have the safety off, that was. But even if she wasn't, she saw herself giving her enemy ample time to spray her with bullets, or gut her with a knife, whilst she in her embarrassing naivete used up all her valuable time by fumbling with the shells, clumsily dropping them in the dirt. She'd die; and she'd do so like a goddamn moron.

Even so, supposing she not only managed to kill Oat, and any aggressors she happened to face, how would she escape from the island? Her tourist boat had been brought to a dock, where an assortment of other boats were moored; but she had no clue how to hotwire or drive a boat, or read a navigation system – presuming there would be one. She was even ignorant of whether small vessels would be equipped with GPS. She couldn't risk swimming to one of the other islands in the archipelago, in the desperate hope that the inhabitants would be more friendly than the ones on her captor's residence. Who knew what aquatic creatures lurked in those crystalline depths? If a shark didn't take her out, a poisonous jellyfish could. Even if she walked smack-bang into a miracle and found a boat with the keys in place, her only option would be to flee the area altogether, aiming to get back to one of the known islands – Sulawesi (where she had come from); Borneo; the Lesser Sunda Islands; or Java. But without any bearings, she would be sailing blind, until her fuel ran out; and then what? And even then, even if every single domino up to the very last one fell in her favor and she managed to escape, with sufficient fuel to boot, she would most likely be tailed, and killed.

There were simply too many obstacles at every damn turn. It wasn't worth the risk.

She scowled, cursing aloud. No exit. No stupid fucking exit.

She closed her eyes, hoping for solace in sleep, however brief. But the best she could manage was a hazy near sleep; and instead of solace, her wandering mind broke free of its constraints, wherein she found Martin, with his eyes gouged out and his lower jaw hanging off. She decided it was better to stay awake after all.

* * *

 

Time dragged along, so slowly that it seemed like hours before her captor returned. But when he did return, he was baring gifts – another banana, another protein bar, and a 1 liter bottle of water, in addition to something folded up under his arm – and wearing a deeply contemplative expression, as if mulling over something very important. He hadn't turned on her...yet. As he crouched down, Isabel shuffled forward on her backside, ready to receive the sustenance right into her hand; or perhaps to touch his fingers with hers, as if such a tiny gesture would magically subvert the trajectory of her doom. She quickly decided against both courses of action, instead keeping her hands in her lap, letting him drop the items onto the ground.

“Les cayó super bien la poema,” – _The poem went down really well_ – he informed her, with understated joviality, “and so, I've decided I'm not going to show you that little video after all. You earned it; no, really. Really. But also, I've been thinking...”

He fixed his gaze on her for a moment, with a blazing intensity that chilled and burned, confused and intrigued her, simultaneously. The man sure knew how to use those stunning eyes of his, but what went on behind them, and why, was a mystery; and this worried her. If she could find a way to reach him, then she would have something to work with. But he was out of reach, she sensed, somehow, in a place all of his own. Perhaps it didn't matter to him if anyone understood him or not. Isabel hardly considered herself the most perceptive of people, but that was just the impression she got, despite not knowing why. Perhaps she was reading more into him than was actually there, she wondered, because she wanted so desperately to understand? She couldn't answer it; she only knew that it was something she felt, and couldn't shake off.

He continued: “With the guys liking the poem, it just... it told me something. It solidified something I'd been thinking about since I met you.” His gaze took on a more relaxed countenance, although the premise of his words rendered Isabel anything but relaxed. She had to stop this, she knew; stop her panic standing to attention at the slightest thing, just as he wanted. She needed to be able to think clearly, if she was to stand any chance of survival in tact. If trying was all she could manage, then she would try.

He took the object from under his arm. Unfolded it. Shook it out to give her an unambiguous view.

A backpack; sturdy but worn. Whose, she wondered? Not that it mattered any more. It was hers now.

He folded up the backpack again, passing it through the bars.

“Put the water and the food in there,” he commanded her, coolly, going to unlock the cell door as she obeyed. That now-familiar chord of nausea began to churn her guts; he was, she assumed, making an exception for her. For what reason, and to what end, she couldn't fathom; but it frightened her as much as the alternative of staying cell-bound. Keeping a cool head seemed even more of a challenging feat now, like the summit of a mountain, which seemed to creep farther away every time she neared it, the air growing ever thinner the higher she climbed. God... how was she going to do this?

Casually, her captor got to his feet, extending his right hand toward her as she exited the cage. Offering it to her, to help her; as opposed to reaching in and hauling her up. The courtesy of his action caught her off guard, before her logic returned, albeit a little too late. If he was playing good cop, she reminded herself, it could only be because it served him in some way or other.

“It's not a marriage proposal, sweetheart,” he scoffed, beckoning her along like a parent to a dawdling child.

Warily, her eyes on his hand, she accepted. A strange, but not unpleasant shudder, reverberated through her at his touch, followed by a stinging sensation in her upper jaw; a sudden, whirring cocktail of emotions and hormonal responses, too complex for her to measure, never mind analyse. There was the strength of his grip; firm enough to support her with effortless ease, yet mercifully gentle enough not to inflict pain. And then, the heat of his skin; or the difference in texture between the roughness of his palm, and the odd softness of the back of his hand. Maybe it was simply the fact of him holding her hand at all?

There was also the fact that he was, ostensibly, doing what she had wanted to do earlier. Although he was the one initiating contact, albeit for practical or misleading purposes, it still afforded her the opportunity to try-

Try what, exactly? Send a psychic message though her skin? Through the pulse in her palm? Like a superhero, or mystical creature from a fantasy story?

She tried anyway, thinking with all her might, beseeching him, whilst she kept her eyes on the part of their bodies in connection, _please, don't hurt me, don't kill me. I'm useless to you injured or dead. Please. It's nothing to you, really. Please._

As soon as she was fully upright – standing level with his lower lip, she noted – he relinquished his grip; but, she could feel, not his gaze. And, now that she was closer to him than ever, she couldn't fight the unremitting lure of that gaze. Although she would have preferred not to look at him, she preferred even less to waste valuable mental energy fighting when she needed to save her efforts for whatever lay ahead. So, galloping heart be damned, she didn't try to fight. A few moments of deafening stillness followed, the two of them observing each other in stoic silence, whilst the engine of the nocturnal island rumbled all around them. It could have been a romantic moment in an antiquated movie, in times when life was more chaste; the two lead characters having escaped their respective parties of friends to share their first kiss in private.

Her captor gently reached out with his right hand, Isabel's heart lunging upwards painfully as rough fingertips invaded her personal space. She flinched, expecting and fearing the gentleness to turn into a strike or blow, but was left equally rattled when he only – only – stroked a delicate path down the left side of her face. She watched him as he did so – his face expressionless, keeping whatever evaluations he was making guarded and impenetrable. Then she allowed her gaze to roam, observing how favorably the light sculpted him – accentuating the strong contours of his face, emphasizing his high cheekbones, and casting shadows on the downward slopes; how it bounced off the rims of his earlobe plugs, and the jade-green trinket on one of his necklaces; how it rendered his arm muscles in glorious definition. It still worried her that she could notice these things at all; even more so that she could find them appealing. Even the huge scar, painted more like a ravine in the night's glow, seemed to call to her on some primal level that she wished, with every fiber of her being, that she could ignore.

“I think, Isabel,” he cooed, his voice gossamer-soft, “you're just the person I want to play a little game with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter in 1-3 weeks.


	9. 8

**AN**

**1.** Apologies for the wait, and the shortness of this 'chapter' (inverted commas because it's actually a snippet). As mentioned previously, circumstances have been conspiring against me and preventing me from getting any writing done. I'm posting what is essentially 1/3 of a chapter now, because I didn't want to keep you gals waiting. The remainder should be ready in around a week. My sincerest gratitude for everyone who's been patient enough to stay on board despite the problems.

 **2.** For the sake of making the plot work, I've had to alter the geography of the location from the start of the game. I was unable to adhere rigidly to the canon for several reasons; not least because, when playing the game, I forgot the locations were so small (the north island is approx 10km²/6.21miles²; the south, approx 8km²/4.97miles²), or that the camp from the beginning ("Make a Break For It") is not part of the north island, or the island in "Payback" where you kill Vaas. In fact, it's not actually on the map; you can explore it yourself with a mod called Generals Open World (coordinates are X:369.2, Y:841.6). Thus, I've had to shake a few things up. I've made the island from the beginning significantly bigger than it presumedly is in the canon, taking it to around 5km²/3.1miles² .

* * *

_**Track recommendation:** _

_Andy Scott - Execution_

* * *

**CHAPTER 8**

Isabel's hitherto freewheeling world braked sharply, leaving her dizzy and winded, unable to muster the ability to speak. Those words – "little game" – laden with menacing promise, struck more fear into her than if her captor had outright said he was going to kill or torture her. Games of her captor's making meant only one thing: sadistic fun at her expense. More than likely, the type of fun that involved terror, and copious amounts of pain. "Game" a la John 'Jigsaw' Kramer, and Michael Haneke's Paul and Peter. All of a sudden, the thought of being back in he cage seemed positively comforting. Better that than be a human puck, or wild animal chow.

She couldn't do this. She couldn't. She wasn't cut out for this. She wasn't strong, tough, or resourceful, like those feisty fictional heroines she so admired; she was a stupid, feeble little girl from the first world, who fell apart under pressure. And at that exact moment, she resented herself for it.

_Ask to be back in the cage. Beg, if you have to. The end justifies the means._

_No no no. No. It doesn't. And it won't work. You're not in control here._

She felt at once a desperation, and a black, looming dread, to hear whatever he was going to say next; like a civilian on trial, awaiting a judge's verdict. It was as if she was on the edge of a potentially lethal precipice, with no way around it, and no way back. Shit-scared or not, the only way forward was to jump, even if the landing killed her. Somehow or other, she was going to have to scrape together some measure of strength.

His vision not leaving hers, the Latino reached into his pocket, retrieving a familiar object – her blindfold. Mute with apprehension, Isabel could do nothing, say nothing, as he wasted no time fastening it over her eyes. Her fear ticked up another notch, and she began to tremble. Dear God, what was he going to do?!

"Ssshh," he soothed, stroking her hair, his tenderness jarring; although now the sensation of his palm stung, like lemon juice in a wound, and if her limbs hadn't gone rigid with fright she would have slapped his hand away as hard as physically possible. His hand came to a stop at the crook of her neck, resting there to gently caress the sensitive skin; skin that was now becoming clammy, and that recoiled at his stinging-nettle touch, all traces of attraction gone. "Nothing to worry about, baby. No-one's gonna hurt you. All we're gonna do is take you to the starting point; but we don't want you to know exactly where that is."

The tightly-coiled fear eased a fraction; only a fraction, but enough to stop her from literally pissing herself. Even though she knew he could have been lying, she chose – or perhaps her need chose for her – to believe him.

"So what I want you to do is look straight ahead until we get there, OK? Don't even think of looking at your feet. Can you do that for me, Isabel?"

Stiffly, Isabel managed a nod.

"Good." He removed his hand from her neck, the sudden absence a moment of utter bliss, a literal weight off her shoulders. "OK, Oat!" He switched to English: "Come here. Take her. Follow me."

Blunted footsteps. A figure at her left side. One strong, muscled arm branching around her to grip her right upper arm; a firm hand clasping around her left wrist, holding her steady. Then they were on the move, her warden guiding her along. Into the fray of the camp proper, she judged, from the sound of things. She tried to count the seconds as she went along, but lost count in the 30's. As they walked, she felt dry, dirt ground and small pebbles; wooden steps; bamboo floorboards and corrugated metal. Here and there, the leaf of a large plant or several brushing her lower legs in ghostly whisper. She heard the dull shuffle of soil underfoot; the scrabble of pebbles; crunch of straw; the yawning creeks of wood; male voices at random intervals, in English, Spanish, and a variety of other indiscernible languages; pigs snuffling; chickens clucking; crickets chirping; snatches of music; distant snippets of what sounded like TV programs... but no pleas or pained screams; no cries – muffled or clear – or protestations. The other captives weren't here. She smelled hints of gasoline; the acrid fumes of cigarettes, mingling with the sweet cadences of marijuana and what could have been incense, although these pirates didn't strike her as mood-scent types; the earthy scent of grains; meat cooking; wafts of compost in amongst the sharp odor of animal feces.

And then, the distinctive rumble of something else: dogs. Dogs growling. Deep, hostile growls, particular to the strongest, most powerful of dogs.

She visibly shivered in Oat's grasp. Where they going to cut her loose and send the dogs after her? She had to know, before they went any further; because if it was her against a pack of vicious, snarling beasts, she would have to do something drastic in the hope they would put her out of her misery with a bullet instead. But her throat had seized up, and the best she could croak was "Dogs... Not dogs... Please..."

From in front of them, her captor spoke coolly: "No, not dogs. That would be no fun."

Good news: no dogs. Bad news: something worse than dogs?

No – not necessarily. Perhaps he just meant that if dogs were involved, it would be over too quickly?

 _That's good,_ she managed to tell herself, relieved for the return of her logical side. She had found a tiny, positive flame in the pitch darkness. It wouldn't last long, but it beat having nothing at all.

They trundled on for what Isabel estimated to be ten minutes, noises of a roaring party growing ever louder... until they abruptly stopped, and everything fell silent.

Oat let go of her, and then she felt hands working at the back of her head to undo her blindfold. A few seconds later he removed the item, to reveal the three of them standing at one end of a cramped, communal space, roughly the size of a basketball court, bordered by a shack on each side. Rows of string lights hung overhead, criss-crossing each other, strung between widely-spaced rows of poles – it would have made for a cozy atmosphere, were the effect not spoiled by the singular floodlights secured to the edge of each shack's roof, glaring down like mechanical gargoyles – and atop those poles, what at a faraway glance would have appeared to be human heads, although closer up were readily distinguishable as the heads of mannequins and waxwork dummies, albeit adorned with clownish make-up and ludicrous hairstyles. Someone had clearly had a lot of fun with the décor; making the place seem more 'homey', no doubt; that was, if 'home' happened to be a macabre theme park inhabited by criminals.

Pirates – around 40 of them, Isabel estimated – all unmasked, sat on basic, wooden chairs, clustered around equally basic wooden tables, the tops of which were laden with plates of food, bottles and cans of alcoholic beverages, and ashtrays. In one corner, a tall, muscled man with skin the color of dark chocolate, tended an oil drum barbecue. Behind him, in the open-backed shack, two south east Asians stirred the contents of cooking pots. But all eyes were on her – regarding her like a little morsel of meat in a lion's den – making her feel not only horribly exposed, but unnerved, too. Some of them, she knew – perhaps even most of them – would otherwise have already raped her, were it not for their boss' good will. She didn't waste any effort in feigning strength or confidence, though, instead choosing to stare at her feet.

Isabel's captor turned to her, clearing his throat to draw her attention towards him. "Now, Isabel," he announced, in English, his voice raised so that everyone could hear him, "here's what we're going to do: in a moment, Oat and I are going to take you a little way further, and then..." He paused for dramatic effect. Some of his men snickered, others exchanged jovial words in their native languages. "Then I'm going to let you go, let you run off into the night."

 _'Do not go gentle into that good night',_ Isabel recalled. So much for poetics.

"And then I'm going to chase you. But don't worry, _hermana_ – I'll give you ten minutes head start." He slunk closer to her, breaching the gap between them completely, then draped his right arm casually around her shoulders, mooring her to him. Just as he had no doubt intended, it felt anything but comforting, and she had to fight herself to suppress a visible shudder. His lips against the shell of her ear, he lowered his voice to a whisper:"Count yourself lucky, sweetheart."

Lucky...why? Lucky...in an ironic sense?

_Stop it. Stop it._

He took a step away, Isabel's body relishing the absence, and continued in a raised voice, "So, these are the rules: You have three hours. If you manage to evade me for that long, I'll let you go free. It's up to you how you get out of here, but you won't be my – our-" he gestured to the crowd, "- problem any more. But if I catch you, then you are my property again... supposing, of course, you don't get eaten by a a tiger or a leopard or a bear, or bitten by a snake or tarantula. We also have wild boars, deers... usually they're not any trouble, but good luck if you meet a cassowary, or ten – really fucking grumpy bastards, those guys."

Cassowaries, she remembered from a poem she had written at highschool; _Cassowary Casserole_. Grumpy birds indeed; emu-sized, strong-legged, territorial, and fast. Kicks that could break bones. Sharp beaks, and taloned feet, that could slice through skin. If she encountered any, she'd be the one ending up as casserole.

"Then there are the komodo dragons; normally they leave you alone... unless you're injured or bleeding, in which case they'll pursue you, and then eat you alive. I'd also advise against eating any berries or tree fruit; I don't have time to educate you on what's harmless and what's not. So, you got all that?"

She gave a feeble nod. At this rate, without a weapon, survival wasn't sounding like a probable outcome.

"Good. OK," he addressed his minions, "guys, remember what I told you. You see her, you let her go. Disobey that order at your fucking peril."

Isabel supposed the ones on patrol around the island – if there were any – were already radioed in on that matter. She forced herself not to consider the possibility that they might not be.

"OK, hermana," he said resolutely, looking her square in the eye, "it's time."


	10. FINALLY: some good news!! July 2017

Well, here we are, two years since I had to take indefinite leave from writing, due to circumstances beyond my control. But what about you, dear readers? Are you still here? If so, I finally, finally, have good news for you: a new chapter will be with you before the end of the month!

Thank you to everyone who has supported me all this time; I hope the rest of the story doesn't disappoint!

See you soon!


	11. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN 1: Two years later, I'm back in the saddle, and it feels so good! I'm still not in the best of situations, hence why updates to this story will take anything from 1-4 weeks, but at least I'm back. Not gonna lie, it's sad to see how many followers and faves I've lost in my hiatus, but I appreciate and accept that not every reader can hang around indefinitely. Two years is a long time. To those who have stayed the course, I tip my hat to you; and to any newcomers (is anyone still playing Far Cry 3 in 2017?), I extend the hand of welcome (make that “Amigos! Welcome!”-- amigos just in case there's a male reader or several amongst the taco party). 
> 
> AN 2: For those who haven't had the terror — sorry, pleasure — of experiencing them first hand, Leviathan, and Top Thrill Dragster, are roller coasters. 
> 
>  
> 
> Track recommendations:  
> Parts 1 and 3: Killing Sound - Six Harmonies  
> Part 2: Yves De Mey - Metrics

**CHAPTER 9**

 

“Oh, Isabel. Siempre me ha gustado tu sentido del humor.” I always liked your sense of humor.

  
Isabel didn't rise to it, instead saying nothing, staring blankly ahead and waiting... just... waiting... for whatever spiked curveball the intruder would throw at her next, as the clamor of her heart began to abate. Yet, absurdly, she found she no longer felt afraid — at least, not as afraid as she _should_ be, she managed to reason.

  
_Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,_ she remembered — thanks to her mother, rather than the Coolio song of her childhood — _I will fear no evil, for thou art with me._

  
_Hah. Not exactly._

  
That instance, seconds ago, of pure, nerve-shredding terror, had given way to a paradoxically jarring sense of...calm? Something like that. She couldn't be sure. No, not calm, exactly, not Psalm 23:4 level fortitude; closer to...just a lack of fear, an absence, as if the culmination of recent events had proved simply too much, causing something inside her mind to implode and leave only a hollow space, numb around the edges. There was no pain, no panic; no screaming; just...emptiness.

  
She wasn't frightened out of her wits of the armed trespasser at her back. She could think with relative clarity. She was present and lucid and in the moment. And although in some deep, murky recess of her psyche — the singularity at the core of that newborn black hole — it was this that frightened her more than anything, none of that fear quite bubbled to the surface. Had something fundamentally changed in her, she pondered briefly, found some inner resource she never knew she possessed? Or was it more a case of waiting for her real self — the self that absolutely would panic and cry and scream — to catch up, with inexorable solidity, like the ground to a skydiver whose parachute had failed?

  
Or perhaps...perhaps she truly had finally lost her mind?

  
_We're all mad here..._

  
_Fucking...'Alice in Wonderland' again. Go away._

  
Not that it mattered, of course. She stood no more chance against this man now than she did two years ago. There were moments when she had felt something other than weak and timid then, too, when she could have almost let herself believe she had the upper hand. But underneath it all, she always knew, as she knew now, that the balance of power was weighted firmly in his favor, and that there was little to nothing she could do to change it. Head honcho of criminal operations on that godforsaken island he wasn't, she remembered, but he had the smarts and wiles of an accomplished mind-fucker, not to mention the weight and strength advantage. She wasn't possessed of the requisite cunning, manipulative, or even just plain old resourceful skills, to parry with someone like him psychologically, much less the corporeal strength or agility for any sort of physical combat.

  
But... what she had done back then, in that shack... wasn't _that_ resourceful?

  
Of course it wasn't. Rather, it was instinctual — her mind and body's default survival strategy kicking in to protect her — just like she supposed her missing fear response was now.... right?

  
Then why, during more than the occasional time of need and longing, had he come to her in her darkest fantasies? And why, although he appeared seemingly against her will, had she welcomed him? Like a vampire at her door, she had invited him in. _Chosen_ to invite him in. And why, after coming down from the high of it all, had she felt such unimaginable shame? She would try to remonstrate with herself in a bid to keep him away, force herself to accept that this was the last time, this had to be the last time, because it was only perpetuating her malady... but he would always return sooner or later, and it always felt so good. So goddamn good that, when in the grip of such raging sickness, she never wanted it to end.

  
She could try and delude herself that it was simply her way of dealing with the trauma, maybe even perhaps a means of punishing herself for the abortion — or all three abortions, counting her relationship with Adam — out of some internalised, long-repressed Catholic belief. In her heart of hearts, however, she knew differently, and hated herself for it.

  
Him being here now, though — flesh and bone, tangible and warm and marijuana-scented, unlike the spectre of those fantasies — this was something else entirely. Here, she had no control over him here. This was reality, and one in which she was in very real, very present danger. He had told her there was no such thing as safety, and by all rights she should be terrified, and only terrified.

  
She knew why she wasn't, and it had nothing to do with survival strategies, or even emptiness. Because, just like the fear, the emptiness itself had vanished, alarmingly giving way just as rapidly to another emotion, and this one scared the hell out of her.

 

* * *

 

Her captor gave a curt whistle, turning a prompt 180 degrees and beginning to walk toward the shack previously behind them. Isabel followed, with Oat at her back, and the whoops and jeers of the pirate hoard bringing up the rear. The Mohawk-haired man led her through a narrow passage at the side of the building, out onto a wide, unleveled dirt road, painted luminous in the now full moonlight.

  
Night had fallen so quickly; it felt like only half an hour ago it had been broad daylight. Time seemed to be accelerating, and for an instant Isabel wondered if some sort of rift had occurred in spacetime, in the very fabric of the universe, causing her to have been captive on this island for days instead of hours, or weeks instead of days... and that by now her family and friends would know she had gone missing whilst in Indonesia and they would already be on the mainland searching for her and the local police would know and the Canadian police would know and even fucking Interpol would know and someone would be sure to gatecrash this hellish party and rescue her any moment—

  
The ground shuddered, pitching her forward and — Holy shit an earthquake a fucking earthquake no no no — into her captor's back.

  
“Careful,” he interjected, snatching her from the universe her freewheeling train of thought had so urgently been trying to spirit her away to, “don't want you taking yourself out before I get a chance to.”

  
He followed the quip with a snicker, and Isabel felt hot, stinging color suffuse her cheeks, realizing that the supposed earthquake she had been freaking out over was nothing more than a few pebbles she had absent-mindedly skidded on whilst forgetting which universe her feet were in.

  
_For fucksake, hold it together. Hold it the fuck together, Izzy, or you will die out here, understand?!_

  
_I understand. I can do this. I can. I can. I have to._

  
Across the way, in both directions, sat an uneven row of structures — shacks, gazebos, and small pavilions — on a grassy bank; behind them the foliage and tall, tropical trees of the jungle. The party ventured right for about 10 shacks, past a wooden platform on the left, boasting a gallows, and lit in ominous ambience by two bare, red lightbulbs. As the sounds of merriment behind them grew fainter, the organic pulse of the island itself grew louder; birds calling, leaves rustling, and crickets engaging in a lively debate.

  
They traversed a chasm in the road — thank whatever deity did or didn't exist that Isabel hadn't been pondering the spacetime continuum at that point — crudely bridged by wooden planks and metal pipes. Ahead of them, at around 50 meters, the settlement appeared to end at the point where the road ascended a gentle slope, turning a left corner obscured by trees. A mountain rose up on the right, its height disguised by lush botany. But before Isabel could discover what was around that corner, her captor was already leading her up a tiny rise and into a small gazebo alongside the road hole. The structure's makeshift front wall consisted of nothing more than one tattered, blood-red sheet, with an equally decrepit white one set back a few feet, spanning its right side. Other torn pieces of material adorned the framework on its left side. Hanging from an exposed beam, three naked, violet color bulbs glowed, crackling almost imperceptibly. A large moth hovered around one of them, clumsily bumping its furred body into the glass repeatedly.

  
_Violet's such a pretty color. Completely incongruous with—_

  
_Shut up. Stay on course._

  
The trio passed through a wide, hefty thatched door — or perhaps it was a makeshift wall, tilted to function as a door, because there wasn't much space on the other side of it — and into the pavilion's open back, which was more like a glorified ledge than a divided section of a room. A small kerosene lamp sat on the edge of the bare wood floor, to the right of more hanging, crimson rags. The Latino led them past the lamp, to the edge of the pavillion and down a small but steep bank that gave onto a dirt path. Beyond that, at barely five meters, lay the jungle, and darkness.

  
All of a sudden, the cool night air felt decidedly chilly. Isabel's guts churned, her skin turning to goose flesh. The sounds of merriment wafting over the airwaves seemed somehow to grow fainter, too, in comparison with the rising volume of her heart.

  
The Latino turned to face her, but didn't step away, so as to maximize the invasion of Isabel's personal space. Silently he beheld her, his expression unreadable, for several agonizing, elongated seconds. Studying her, she wondered? Scrutinizing her? Threatening her? Trying to unnerve her? Or simply because he _could_? She wished to God she knew what he was thinking, now so more than ever. If there was something she could latch onto, appeal to, maybe he would just... Just what? Let her go? Politely escort her to the shore and call for a water taxi back to the mainland? She was fresh out of luck, and had never felt so alone and vulnerable in her whole life.

  
She looked down, but could feel her captor's gaze linger on her, burning cold, like dry ice. Tough girls stood their ground; squared their shoulders; looked their adversaries right in the eyes. Isabel wasn't a tough girl.

  
_Well you better fucking learn._

  
She didn't want to look at him, because every moment spent looking at him reminded her of how weak and small and puny she was. And how inconsequential. How mortal.

  
_I repeat: You. Bet-ter. Fuc-king. Learn._

  
Her captor waited, seemingly content to give his quarry all the time she needed to stare at her feet. Crickets, crickets, chirping. Crickets. Crickets. Night birds warbling. Faint music. Male voices. Blood pounding in her ears. And him, his lean body a beacon of warmth in the cold.

  
_What? Fuck...no._ She'd rather be naked in a freezer than keeping warm next to him.

  
When awkwardness overcame her, rather than a summoning of strength, and she finally did bring her gaze back to his, he leaned in closer, so uncomfortably, intimately close she thought for a moment he might be going to kiss her. With the light at his back, his hazel irises looked black as obsidian; so unfathomably dark, perilous. And for the briefest of moments, something other than fear stirred deep within her: burning curiosity, and something...unmentionable. She wanted to know what had brought him to this place, this life, this mindset. Who he was, where he came from, why he had chosen to play this game with her.

  
His face mere milimeters from hers, he uttered softly “Run”.

 

* * *

 

 

The man at her back remained there, a formless but very real entity, and identically mute as she herself. Not even his breathing was audible. Any moment now, something was going to happen, she was sure of it. She knew she ought to feel unnerved by all of those things.

  
“Run,” he had said, back then, and she had been doing so ever since. Fleeing from him, and from herself — from that monstrous, black truth, with its gaping maw and shark teeth and its will to shred her to pieces and devour her if she didn't keep moving, keep on going. Now, though, she realised with unshakeable certainty, that she couldn't outrun her truth forever: as much as she had been running, she had been anticipating him, too. The bad seed he had planted in her head as well as her body had left her infected; and that part, that same part which governed her fantasies, couldn't be aborted, and had always hoped to see him again, irrational and stupid and wrong as it was.

  
She was sick. And sick and tired of running.

  
_“I think that if one is faced by inevitable destruction,”_ she recited internally, like a long overdue mantra, _“if a house is falling upon you, for instance—one must feel a great longing to sit down, close one’s eyes and wait, come what may...”_ A quote from Dostoevsky's The Idiot; a novel she had studied for her major. Hah! Whoever said 19th century Russian literature was one big moot point in the modern world. The fools. What did they know, eh?

  
And so, she waited.

  
_Wake up, NOW!_ snapped a defiant voice in her head, wrenching her out of the moment.

  
_What?_ she asked it, befuddled. That Sensible Angel™ on her right shoulder had impeccable timing, the little fucker.

  
Emboldened, it continued: _You heard me. If you give in now, you're done for._

  
_How am I done for? What's the worst that could happen? If he wants to kill me he'll do it anyway. Might as well get some action before that happens._

  
_Do you have any shred of dignity, Izzy? Think of everything he did to you two years ago: kidnapping you; holding you hostage; playing cat and mouse with you all over that fucking island; then, when he got bored chasing you, using your own goddamn desperation against you to get laid. Don't say that last part was mutual, because do you really think he would have taken no for an answer? Him? Remember how he behaved? That “fearful fucking symmetry” thing he said right at the beginning, and the way he looked at you when he said it? The guy's unhinged. And what about everything he's done in the last two weeks? There's a word for that: stalking. Oh, and home invasion. Y'know, not things_ decent _people do. So now he stalks you, toys with you like a plaything, disables your car, breaks into your fucking house — and God knows whatever else he's got planned, because you can bet he has — and you welcome him with open arms?_

  
_Open legs, more like._

  
_Izzy, are you insane? I mean really? This isn't a fucking romance novel._

  
_It's just sex. I'm not in love with him._

  
_Oh come on. If he were some random hot guy off the street then sure, that would be “just” sex. But the very nature of your relationship with him precludes it from being that. OK, maybe for him it is — although if he's followed you halfway across the globe then who the fuck knows — but not you. Think things are bad now? They'll be even worse if you have sex with him again._

  
_It might buy me some time, though._

  
_Grow a backbone, Izzy. You've turned into a fucking loser these last two years; now's the time to get some self respect and do what you couldn't do then: fight back._

  
_Right. And get killed in the process._

  
_If he's going to kill you anyway...?_

  
_Which is precisely why—_

  
“Ayy, Isabel,” the intruder cut in, with the tone of a mildly exasperated parent to a child, “por qué la ley del hielo, uh?” _Why the silent treatment?_

  
She didn't know what to say, or what to do, too afraid of the pestilence within herself, the roiling sea of conflicting emotions battering her hither and thither like a ping-pong ball, to make the next move. She had to do something, but what could she do? Neither Sensible Angel™ nor Dostoevsky could offer her any more guidance. Feign outrage, perhaps? A normal, healthy minded person would be, at the very least, outraged. No, a normal, mentally well person would be petrified first and foremost, every other emotion secondary. Besides, this guy enjoyed riling people up; why play into his hands even more, if she could help it?

  
Then, he moved. The leisurely, gentle thud of booted feet, toward the side of the sofa. Deliberately slow, prolonging the suspense.

  
Out of nowhere a Molotov cocktail of anxiety, anticipation, dread and expectation exploded in the pit of Isabel's stomach, followed by an almost debilitating wave of queasiness, like the moment before the first descent on a roller coaster, when you were teetering on the edge and all fired up for the rush, yet simultaneously realising the cold hard facts that you were some 300 feet off the ground and about to hurtle down at 90 mph... and you wanted that rush so badly, and you couldn't wait for it, but that if something were to go wrong you would die a messy, horrific death... and suddenly an enormous klaxon starts sounding over and over

in your head STOP STOP NO NO NO I CAN'T DO THIS I CAN'T I CAN'T I CAN'T... But you were strapped in, and you couldn't turn back, your only remaining option to simply hold on tight and pray for the best.  
If you were Isabel 2.0, that was, who honed in on the 1 in 300 million chance of Death By Roller Coaster; pre-Indonesia Isabel would have seen your Leviathan and raised you a Top Thrill Dragster.

  
_Now_ her nerves were dancing on a knife edge.

  
_You wanted to be scared, didn't you?_ a mocking little voice piped up. _Well, careful what you wish for._

  
She simultaneously wanted and didn't want to see him. She was ready. She wasn't ready. Despite the fantasies and the repressed hopes this wasn't what she wanted at all, or was it? She didn't want to see him, because seeing him would consolidate his realness, and for him to be real meant she would have to face her own truth, her own demon, head on. But oh, how she did want to see him. How she couldn't wait. How it was high time she confronted her demon, or simply put her faith in Dostoevsky and let the whole fucking bungalow collapse and _just go with it_.

  
An ill-timed but hilarious thought struck her, nearly making her laugh out loud: that this whole situation may have played out very differently if the sofa she was sitting on was in a different position. Had it been against a wall, as opposed to in the approximate center of the room, she would have seen her stalker enter. But it couldn't have been anywhere else, really, because the TV, cable box, DVD and BluRay stack, with their serpents' nest of wires, was against one wall, and the center of the room happened to be the perfect, Goldilocks distance from the screen

  
She didn't laugh, though; the man who had upended her world was standing in front of the TV, looking at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN 3: Not directly related to the story, but I'm wondering how you readers imagine Vaas looks in this fic? Cover art version (if so; which)? In-game version? Far Cry Experience version? Voices of Insanity trailer version? Any other trailer version? A particular fan art rendering**? Mixture of any of the above? Feel free to PM me your answer. I find it interesting that there are so many versions of the guy, each looking slightly (or in some cases significantly) different. FTR I haven't drawn on one particular image when I've written him — his incarnation varies from scene to scene in my mind, except for his clothes (game version, 'cos I prefer jeans to cargo pants), and the color of his eyes, for which I went with the Far Cry Experience version (hazel) due to it essentially being a mix of the colors he has in the gamut of representations (seriously, he's had them all). 
> 
> **If you haven't already seen them, this one http://deadlyninja.deviantart.com/art/Vaas-Montenegro-349515400 and this one http://obsceneblue.deviantart.com/art/Vaas-Montenegro-346547523 are my personal faves. 
> 
> www dot deadlyninja dot deviantart dot com slash art slash Vaas-Montenegro-349515400; and  
> www dot obsceneblue dot deviantart dot com slash art slash Vaas-Montenegro-346547523


	12. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: WARNING: potential triggers for illegal drug abuse, and non-consenual acts NOT of a sexual nature. Sure, the drugs part is par the course for an FC3 fic, and I'm sure everyone's aware Vaas doesn't eactly play by the rules when it comes to social protocol, but I'm keeping the warning just in case. 
> 
> Next chapter in 1-3 weeks. 
> 
> Ain't too proud to ask for reviews and kudos.
> 
> \- - - - - - - - -
> 
> Track recommendation: Janne Hanhisuanto - Movement 1
> 
> \- - - - - - - - -

**CHAPTER 10**

 

Ojos avellana, was the Spanish name for them. Hazel _nut_ eyes, rather than simply  hazel. Pretty rare in darker Mestizo Latinos, as far as Isabel was aware. Either a recessive gene, or some genetic fluke. Naturally; someone like him would _have_ to differ from the norm. It was practically a requirement.

Except for a t-shirt and slim-fit bomber jacket instead of a red tanktop, and less kohl around his eyes, he looked identical to the last time she had seen him. Whilst she had undergone a significant physical change over the last two years, he didn't even appear to have aged. So marijuana and the pirate life kept you young; who knew? That was, if it didn't kill you.

Face to face with her nearly-murderer-come-quasi-lover-come-personal-demon for the first time in two years, Isabel didn't die. Nor did she faint or scream. The ride was over, the 300 foot drop survived in tact. Her heart felt like a hockey puck during a game, her pulse throbbed at breakneck speed, and her stomach game the intermittent lurch, but she had _survived_. She was more resilient than she thought, and that was something. Tiny, but still something, considering how acute her sudden gust of fear had been. And although there was no way of predicting what this man would do to her, it gave her a small sliver of hope that she might not be completely powerless.

 _Well,_ her cynical side began to dispute, _only so long as he wants you alive. If he wants you dead, it does—_

She shut the thought down. It wouldn't serve her. Fear remained — of what, she wasn't entirely sure any more – hanging over her like smoke, yet somehow, something in her had clicked, allowing her practical self some agency.

A vague smile on his face, he asked convivially "Te importa si me siento acá?" _Do you mind if I sit here?_ He nodded toward the couch to Isabel's left — the one that had gone unoccupied by her since her mother and sister had moved out, and rarely occupied even when they stopped by. _A break to its dry spell,_ she thought with sour humor. _Maybe literally, if anything happens._

 _That should be the last thing on your mind,_ Sensible Angel ™countered it.

_I meant bloo— oh fuck. Shut up._

"Parece un poquitillo incómodo — yo, parado, y tú, sentada, sabes?" _Feels a little bit awkward, me standing and you sitting, you know?_

At that, Isabel failed to suppress an indignant snort of semi-laughter. He had stalked her, both by proxy and himself, and broken into her house, and he was requesting her permission to sit down? He was obviously trying to get a rise out of her, and this time she couldn't help it. Score 1 to him.

"Dale para adelante," she replied, with as little emotion as she could manage. _Go right ahead._

For a moment, she regretted the rejoinder; it was too bold, too soon, in addition to the not so minuscule fact of it being unwise to anger this man, whose limits she was completely ignorant of. She should try and play it safe at all times, at all costs. She had been lucky earlier, saying her life was of no value to him, but luck could have been all it was. 

To her relief, however, his genial demeanor remained. Casually, he seated himself at an angle facing her, then reclining back into the sofa and stretching out his legs. Making himself at home.

"Nice couch," he remarked in his native tongue, "really fucking comfy."

_So glad you think that,_ quipped a sardonic Reckless Devil ™ ,  _ I got it specially for you _ . Fortunately,  Sensible Angel ™ won out with the art of silence. 

The mohawk-haired man regarded the assortment of food on the coffee table for a moment, giving a small chuckle. "I see you found the yogurt and lemon," he continued, still in Spanish. "Sorry there's not more; I wanted to do some shopping for you, but business got in the way, and this was the best I could do at short notice. But it's the thought that counts, right?"

Fighting to stay as calm as possible, to keep from breaking into hysterical laughter at the incredulity of the whole situation, Isabel managed a flatly-intoned "What are you doing here?" in Spanish.

"Isn't it obvious?" her adversory replied, maintaining the cordial act, "I'm visiting an old friend. You."

_No way! I'd never have guessed, in a million years!_

She should have known he'd be like this, deliberately infuriating. She would have to change her tack, be more specific in her line of questioning. But there were too many questions to even know where to begin, and even though she was coping better than she could have ever imagined, it was no easy feat. Confusion loomed heavy over her, and she felt herself growing ever gradually more tense, not to mention _that_ feeling — that ever present force her rational side was fighting to keep at arm's length.

"Please," she continued in Spanish, as disspassionately as she could muster whilst looking him in the eyes, "please just tell me what this — all...this... the last fortnight — is about. Please just be straight with me."

She held a breath for an instant, praying her directness wouldn't set him off.

It didn't. His ease didn't falter even a fraction.

He cast a short glance around the room, as if scanning for spies or surveillance devices, or trying to gather his thoughts. Isabel surmised it was neither; he was drawing the moment out, seizing every chance he got to tease and toy with her. Exercising his control. She had no choice but to wait.

His gaze meeting hers again, he replied, amicable as ever, "My colleagues and I have got business here for a while, and I thought hey, why waste a perfect opportunity?"

She nodded in understanding. "Yes, but... why..."

She knew she didn't need to complete the sentence, letting herself trail off, hoping he would be merciful enough to put childish games aside for a moment and just give her a direct answer. Perhaps that would be too much to hope for.

He fixed those genetic-fluke-of-a-color eyes on her, smiling warmly — a smile that met his eyes. A real smile, one of genuine fondness, that had Isabel longing to be fooled, if only momentarily before her sane side resurfaced. Either he was an accomplished actor, or in his screwed-up way he did hold some strange, warped affection for her. Both were equally worrying. She did not return the gesture.

"Didn't you miss me? I missed you."

Again, she had to reign back her compulsion to laugh. Was that a general comment or an answer to her question? And if the latter, what kind of an answer was that, for crying out loud? He _missed_ her? What, was he trying to woo her? Was that it? This entire fiasco was merely some twisted courting attempt? Or was this yet another of his mindfuck games, just to revel in her discomfort? It was impossible to tell where this guy's games began and ended. Or...

What if he knew about... those feelings? What if he could can sense them? Had he seen inside her head and knew every sordid little detail? Jesus Christ, it was almost like Edgar Allan Poe's ****_The Telltale Heart_. Make that: _el puto corazón delator_. Except it wasn't solely her heart that had betrayed her; it was her every feature and expression, her every goddamn pore. Worse still, even if, like Poe's over-paranoid narrator, she wasn't actually as transparent as that, unlike the policeman in Poe's tale, her intruder was attuned to her in a way no other person, save her sister, had been. Although she had spent a grand total of what, ten hours at absolute most, with this man, including now, she felt with absolute conviction that he _knew_ her. She couldn't hide, because wherever she was he would find her. The bastard had chiselled his way into her head two years ago and planted some sort of psychic tracking device.

Then again, that could just be her paranoia working overtime.

Whatever the case, she remained silent, as much in protest to his game playing as shame of her own truth. If he wasn't going to dignify her anxiety and morbid curiosity with a concrete answer, then neither would she do likewise for him. She had already given him so much of what he wanted; now was the time to level the playing field a little.

"Aww, come on," he endeavored, with that tilt of the head so unsettlingly reminiscent of her own sister, "lighten up. I even brought you flowers."

 _What?!_ This was some "hey, captive, I need your help to write a poem" tier surrealness.

She watched him, near dumbfounded, as he reached into the right hand pocket of his jacket, retreiving a small Ziploc bag filled with an assortment of diminutive white flowers and buds that appeared to have been freshly picked. When he threw it her way, only innate reflex made her catch it. Warily, not daring to shift her gaze from his for fear he would use her distraction against her in some way, she fumbled around trying to open the bag. But she had never been the most dextrous of people, even with so called "easy open" items.

This time, he did read her mind. "Isabel, please," he pressed, "You can relax, OK? I'm not here to hurt you."

Isabel stared him out, continuing to play mute while her fingers endeavored to prise open the bag; such a simple thing, yet without use of her eyes success continued to evade her. That did not, however, mean she would surrender so easily. Her intruder could try all he liked to convince her, but she wouldn't give him her trust. At least not yet.

The man's expression took a turn for the impish. "Do you wanna frisk me?"

 _Oh, you'd just love that, wouldn't you?_ But the frightening part was, that same, dark part of her would still have equally loved to take him up on it; and as if in substitution for her voice, a small but dreadful sensation trilled silently in her loins.

 _Go fuck yourself,_ she chided to it, surprised and astonished that her sense of humor was holding up in the midst of the din, _very not literally._

"I can empty my pockets if you like? Turn them inside out. Fuck, I can even strip if you want."

At that, a cough-laugh escaped her. A second failure. But she gave him no more. If he had come bearing arms, it would have made no difference. He didn't need any concealed weapons to harm her — physically fit and strong as he was, his own body would be more than enough.

"Suit yourself," he quipped.

As if possessed of a brain, and satisfied that it had inconvenienced her enough, the bag opened. A gorgeous, heady, floral fragrance wafted out — one that seemed at once familiar. In fact, ever more familiar by the second; it was already on the tip of her tongue. Something to do with water... and... insects? Forgetting herself for a moment, Isabel closed her eyes, searching, reaching, for the answer. It was there, right there, just out of reach. She lifted the bag closer to her face, inhaling deeply, and then, like a soccer ball crashing through the window, everything came hurtling back, fragments rapidly snapping back into place. A presence in her bedroom last night, which she her utter exhaustion had allowed her to dismiss as Claudia playing a prank; an unusually vivid dream about laying on a raft, buoyed by gentle waves; that same scent of flowers, surrounding her; a fly crawling on her neck; a far-off voice saying “You're pretty eloquent when you're drugged”; the bizarre, dichotomous sensation of being somehow separate from her body whilst still being in it; indefinable, glowing pleasure; and waking up at 1:35AM with a distinctly sedated feeling.

The bastard. The absolute, unashamed bastard.

In the wake of these newfound facts, it no longer seemed important to try and play games. The fear and caution she had been clinging to fell by the wayside, overtaken by only the impulse to react.

"You were here last night," she confirmed aloud in English, blindly setting the bag of flowers beside her. It was the detached, almost clinical tone of someone who had gone past shock, past fear and panic, to reach a certain acceptance of their dire straits. "It was you, in my bedroom. You drugged me. You...raped me."

"I didn't rape you," he replied with infuriating calm.

"You did something," she retorted, her tone low but with a slight tremble, composure already waining. "You touched me. I felt hands all over my body."

"But not _there_." He held her gaze, completely unperturbed by her flick-switch change of emotion.

The little voice that had previously implored her to act with circumspection grew steadily fainter, ever more drowned out by the rising tide of outrage, nearly as much against herself as him. Bastard. Pervert. Sicko. How dare he! And how dare _she_ allow it to happen to herself? If she'd only turned over in bed and looked at her intruder, instead of ignoring the distant chatter of what she had actively chosen to dismiss as paranoia, she might have been able to—

Or would she? Again, it all came back to two things: 1. he was stronger than her; and 2. whether he would have taken "no" for an answer.

She shook her head, exhaling audibly. "What were you _doing_?!" Her voice was starting to rise, and she found herself unable to help it. "Fondling me while jerking off?! What did you drug me with?! How...? Just... just... what the fuck did you do to me?! Why?! Why are you doing all this?! Why..." She trailed off, at a loss for where else to go in spite of her ire. She could demand that he leave, or threaten to call the police; but not before he had furnished her with a legitimate answer. She had to get an answer to at least this, somehow. She couldn't not know why he had done...whatever it was he had done last night. She had to know.

The intruder's ease didn't even waver. He weathered her outburst, then went on: "Maybe you recall me saying to you that I liked my ladies willing?" Oh yes, she did; another one engraved in her memory. "Well nothing's changed there, don't worry. I didn't get any sexual gratification out of it. I didn't sexually violate you in any way; in fact, I didn't even touch you besides take the covers off, because it was quite hot in there, and the drug I gave you — negligible dose, by the way — sometimes raises people's body temperature. That's it. Whatever physical sensations you felt were just hallucinations, or just... exaggerated by the drug."

"What drug, and how much?" She was glaring at him now. Although he'd had the relative decency to give her what appeared to be a direct and truthful answer for the first time, her anger persisted. Was this man utterly devoid of sanity, or just game for a not-so-funny-on-her-part kind of laugh? At worst, he could have been trying to kill her; at best, his actions were rash.

"A mild hallucinogenic; and the bare minimum."

"What hallucinogenic?"

"It doesn't have a name yet. You remember that dishevelled old guy wandering around by the shore, who asked you if you'd seen Agnes? He made it. He's our resident chem—"

That was it. She'd had enough. All of her common sense and need for self preservation and dignity disappeared into the ether, except for the one part that was now working overtime to restrain her from physically lashing out at him. For the most part, now, she no longer cared if she was endangering herself by what she said.

"The fuck?! You stalk me, break into my house, then drug me with something a homeless guy randomly cobbles together?! How dare you! Are you absolutely out of your mind?! You could've fucking killed me! Did you for one moment think about that?! This is so... so... so fucked up. I don't even know—"

"Isabel," the Mohawk-haired man interjected placatingly, "just hear me out for a moment. Please. It's really not as bad as you think."

"Not as bad as I think? Excuse me?! How can you even say something like that? My God..."

Unbidden but welcome, the thought returned to her that, as yet, he had done her no physical harm. He hadn't so much as raised his voice to her. Through the red barbs of shock and stinging anger, she could just about claw back one more measure of self control. Although it was difficult to think properly, deep down that flicker of logic held firm, cognizant of the neccessity not to provoke him. Despite her emotions feeling like socks in an open tumble dryer, whirring round and round at speed and with the potential to shoot out were the machine to halt abruptly, the rational side of her refused to quit. She had done so many stupid things in her life; now was the time to try and be smart — or, as smart as she feasibly could be, under the circumstances.

"Have you been feeling unwell today?"

"Huh?"

"More tired than usual? Headaches? Nausea? Itchy skin? Visual disturbances?"

She shook her head. Besides waking up after her trip, groggy as though half anesthetized, she felt no different than usual.

"And until mid afternoon, any mood swings?"

"No."

"Then I'd say you're fine. There have been no adverse reactions to this drug. None whatsoever. There's no real comedown, nor any lasting side effects. I've tested it. Pretty much everyone on my island's tested it, and at much higher doses than you. Nothing to report except the good. Dr. Earnhardt looks like a bum, and he has his... less lucid moments, as you observed, but put him to work in the lab and he knows what he's doing. He's like one of those autistic savants."

"You still drugged me."

_Without my consent._

"You've been having such a hard time of things since we last met; I just thought you needed some... you know... respite."

_And you don't think the last fortnight contributed to that load at all?_

_Stay calm. Stay_ calm _. He wants you to rise to it. Don't give in to him._

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, exhaled slowly. When she resurfaced, he was still looking at her, unruffled as ever. She was doing well.

"I wouldn't have given you anything risky. Yeah, I know, you might not feel inclined to believe me right now — and to be honest I don't blame you — but look at you. You're alive. You're well. And from the looks of things, it was a good trip, no?"

"That's not the point," she said in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

He gave a tacit nod. "No, no, you're right. And I'm sorry. I really am. I kinda projected my own feelings onto you, putting myself in your position and imagining what might make _me_ feel better. Bad call. I should have been more thoughtful; and I'm sorry."

Although he made a convincing show of apologizing, Isabel couldn't allow herself to buy it. God, how she wanted to take him at his word, how she wished she could, because he seemed so tremendously earnest; it would make things so much easier if she could just let herself relax and believe the best. But she couldn't; if she did, she might as well be signing her own death warrant, because if she started trusting him now, where would it end? After all, her rational side reasoned, he hadn't turned up out of the goodness of his heart; if anyone had an alterior motive for being nice to people, it would be him. If she trsuted him on this, would she keep wanting to delude herself until she finally woke up and found her life compromised beyond repair? OK, maybe not that far... but at the very least he probably aimed to bed her — wasn't that most every hetero or bi-sexual man's motive for voluntarily talking to a not completely hideous woman?

_That is, supposing he doesn't find_ you _completely hideous. 30Lbs weight gain is a lot on a 5"2 body. You'd be lucky to get some from anyone right now._

_Maybe it's not about how you look._

No. She would not be stupid, and she would not believe him. The importance of being (seemingly) earnest or not, there was as much a chance he was humoring her, or flat out lying, as telling the truth. Even if his end game was nothing more than sex, it made no difference.

_So what you're saying is, you're going to forego your one chance of finally getting some, just to have the upper hand?_

It looked like she had rediscovered her dignity at last, and not a moment too soon. She was almost overcome by a feeling of giddiness; she had turned this around, she had actually done it. For the first time in two years, she felt proud of herself.

And so, she said undemonstratively, "Please leave."

 


	13. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN 1: Next chapter in 1-3 weeks.
> 
> \- - - - - - - - 
> 
> TRACK RECOMMENDATIONS:
> 
> Part 1: Lorn – All Corrupt Eveything  
> Part 2: Alva Noto - Garment (For a Garment)

 

* * *

**CHAPTER 11**

Running, literally for her life. A narrow, dirt path, fringed on both sides with varying degrees of foliage, the blessedly full moon providing just enough visibility through the canopy of trees not to render every object in her way a potential hazard. Had it been moonless, the sizeable branch she encountered would have resulted in injury, possibly worse. She tackled the branch in one surpirisingly agile go, only to nearly trip over her own feet as she carried on straight ahead, the route taking an abrupt downhill slant. Her mind screamed panicky obscenities as the momentum had her skidding down the slope, cutting through denser plantlife and accumulating a mini avalanche of pebbles underfoot and around, until she almost went careening over a rocky plateau. Miraculously, it was only the pebbles that saved her, causing her to slip over onto her side an instant before the moss and vine-covered boulders came into view all of five feet away. She slid the rest of the distance at speed, traveling halfway over the boulders before reaching a tentative stop. Adrenaline pumping, she felt dizzy but in no discernable pain, unable to recognize whether or not she had done herself any harm, although it wouldn't have mattered if she had.

As the dizziness cleared, she tried to take in her surroundings; she had reached what seemed to be the bottom of a small-ish, grassy valley, with ferns, palms, and various other types of trees dotted amongst the vegetation and smooth rock formations of the inclines. Upon looking down from where her feet dangled, she praised whatever deity did or didn't exist; the drop between the edge and the grassy ground was little more than two feet, allowing her to simply stand up and continue unimpeded. She almost felt like a character in a videogame — albeit one set to the easiest level — or an action movie, rather than a real person who wouldn't be magically resurrected if she were to perish at any moment. Nevertheless, she wasn't going to tempt fate just yet by attempting to scale either bank when there appeared to be a flat path ahead of her.

She gave a moment's consideration to picking up a few small rocks to use as potential missiles, but rejected the idea on account of her shorts pockets not being deep enough, and needing her hands free. She took off at a sprint, following the mostly grass-covered course. Here and there small animals darted out of her way, and an unidentified winged creature swooped perilously close past her face. Although the valley proper seemed to end virtually as soon as it had begun, the extensive fauna and large boulder formations made for numerous blind corners, forcing her to slow her sprint to a fast jog... and thank fuck for them, because mere seconds later she was on the verge of another ledge, overhanging a sheer drop of around ten feet. Broken ankle territory for sure, if not broken leg. Whatever was looking out for her, it was doing a superb job so far.

Another ridge stood barely a few feet away but at double the distance's drop, and as she still didn't intend on any rock climbing if she could help it, there was no alternative but to make the jump... and without delay. Panic caught up to her with a jolt, ringing out in her head, mingled with the same handful of questions, pounding ceaselessly like a mish-mash of syncopated kick drums: it couldn't have even been two minutes yet, but was he already tailing her anyway?; how far had she gotten?; was she visible?; was he close behind, or catching up?

One thing was for certain: she couldn't stand here wasting time worrying. She had to make it to the other side.

Backing up a little, she steeled herself, and took a running leap. Her stomach lurched. A split second later she touched down hard and inelegantly on the opposite boulder, but luckily without injury, that she was aware.

To her feet, and running again, down a small but steep rocky slope that gave onto another dirt path, which dipped further and then sloped gradually upward. The propulsion of her downward trajectory was sufficient to get her over the worst of it, only requiring minimal effort to reach level ground. Seconds later the trees and vegetation petered out, the dirt path giving way to a flat rock path, which in turn gave way to a boulder, a log bridging another chasm, and then—

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_

A rocky rise, no more than 10 feet high but at a 90 degree angle in most parts, marking the end of this part of her journey. Fortuitously there happened to be a bundle of thick, sturdy vines trailing down from the bark of a tree at the drop's edge, which should enable climbing the rockface; that was the good news. The bad news was that she had never succeeded in even climbing a tree, and not for want of trying. But backtracking was out of the question, the boulders lining the path too high and smooth to tackle and the plantlife completely obscuring everything else. It was rock climbing or bust.

_Hurry! For the love of... hurry!_

Even if it hadn't been ten minutes — and she was sure it hadn't — her captor wasn't necessarily a man of his word. He could be right behind her at any moment.

One of the vines was loose, its root having been wrenched from the ground. Clearly, it had indeed been used for the same purpose as she intended to use them. Still, she gave it an initial rough series of tugs, testing its durability and give, just in case. Things had been going uncannily well for her so far, and it would be just her luck to attempt the maneuver and have the apparatus break. Fortunately, appearances weren't deceptive.

_Come on!_

With both hands she grabbed the vine as far above her head as she could comfortably manage, stepped as far backwards as the vine would allow, then jumped, swinging herself forward and aiming the flat of her Sketchers-clad feet against the rest of the hanging cluster. Her feet slipped, and she landed.

_Shit..._

She tried again. Again she failed.

_Fuck... no..._

Once more yielded another failure. Panic started rising, bringing with it a flurry of nausea.

_You have to calm down. Calm down. You can do it, now. You've gotta think straight._

She forced herself to take a deep breath, closing her eyes and promising herself that when she opened them she would come up with something, no matter how fantastical the thought sounded.

 _Balls of your feet,_ said a little voice the instant her eyes opened.

This one worked. Rejoicing internally, she succeeded in slotting the toes of both feet into the spaces between the static vines, using the impenetrable solidity of the rockface to help assist pushing herself higher as she inched her hands upwards. The strain on her arms, upper body and core was tremendous, but she forged on, invigorated by her success. Another foot higher, and then another, and another. The rough surface of the vine was beginning to burn her palms, but no matter. She couldn't afford to let go, much less stop.

Right hand up. Left hand up. Push with her toes. Repeat. Holy shit, she was doing this! Right hand up. Left hand up. Push with her toes. Repeat. Again.

_Keep going; you got this._

The further she climbed, the more painful it became, but nothing would kill her determination. Adrenaline roared in her every cell, her every fiber, fierce and uncompromising, spurring her on. At long last, her palms and body screaming with pain and exertion, she reached the top. One final, enormous haul, and her legs were up and over. Exhausted, she collapsed on her back, lower body against stone and upper on grass, gazing up at the glowing satellite so far above as it gazed down upon her. Unwise though it surely was, she knew she would be unable to continue if she didn't rest, if only for thirty seconds, so she permitted herself this one luxury. Waves of pure joy rolled through her, despite the pain and danger she was in, and in spite of the uncertainty lurking behind every obstacle.

She watched the bright orb in the sky, and it watched her. It felt like another of those life imitating art moments, because in fiction didn't mostly everything important that occurred nocturnally do so under a full moon? Daring escapes; frantic chases; stakeouts; revelations; creepy or horrific goings on? But full moons didn't just spring out of nowhere, nor did they prevail in certain parts of the world; there was always a period of waxing, then of waning. There was a far greater chance of things happening when the moon wasn't full, so it seemed bizarre, if not tinted with the supernatural, that the events of tonight just happened to take place when it happened to be at its fullest and brightest.

She counted what she estimated to be another fifteen seconds, then clambered to her feet, her head swimming for a moment and nearly causing her to fall back down. Laying down flat hadn't been the wisest of decisions — duh — but she could spare no time to berate herself. Fortunately she regained her balance just before gravity would have prevailed.

Onward she ran, over bare earth, grassy earth, and stone; past trees and ferns, foliage and nonspecific greenery, boulders, rocks, and inclines of varying heights, several times given a juggernautal startling courtesy of deer dashing out from blind spots. Then through a small cave of sorts, low enough to make her stoop and slow her pace to a crawl. A small creature darted over her right foot, causing an involuntary shriek, for which she scolded herself internally. If she didn't manage to get a handle on her reactions, there was a strong possibility that one of them — just one, extra loud scream — could betray her location. But how the hell could she, when it was difficult to do anything _but_ simply react? She would have to figure something out, and soon; her life might literally depend on it.

That extra-loud scream nearly happened, all of five seconds later when what she had believed to be one of the 'rocks' just past the cave's exit turned out to be Martin... or what remained of Martin. Empty eye sockets stared back at her from a gore-caked face, and his lower jaw hung bloodied by its hinges as if in a mute, hysterical shriek. His right ankle lay bent back at an impossible angle, as did his right hand, and a sizeable chunk of flesh was missing from his left calf, along with his left show. If Isabel could have screamed, she would have, and it probably would have been loud enough for the guys back in the camp to hear. But no sound emerged — just an asphyxiated silence of pure terror and revulsion. When Martin had requested a toilet break, never to return, Isabel hadn't heard any sounds of a breakout attempt. The toilet hadn't been far away enough not to hear any sounds of a fracas. But there had been nothing. However the poor New Zealander had met his untimely fate — and why-ever, for that matter; because wasn't her captor planning to sell him? — it it must have happened quickly. Or perhaps they had humored him, simply letting him flee, safe in their own knowledge that he wouldn't get far? But if the latter, why?

Cassowaries, her captor had said. Wild boars, too. Bears. Komodo dragons. Or those snarling beasts the troops kept as pets. That was all, wasn't it?

 _Shit..._ She couldn't remember. She couldn't fucking remember.

A shrill bird cry and vigorous flapping of wings sounded from directly above her, and instinctively she ducked. Whatever bird had made the sound swooped into a nearby tree, disturbing the leaves as it settled. Waiting for fresh meat, probably, which meant it wasn't likely to be the only one — then again, she had no idea how long the poor man had languished there. Maybe the alphas had been and gone, and now it was the omegas' turn? And she shouldn't be waiting for them, should she? Yet, for several precious moments, she forgot herself, glancing upwards to see if she could locate the bird. When she turned around to face the direction she had come, she saw Martin's backpack, several meters up, perched precariously on the edge of the cave's roof like some elaborately-rigged trap. He must have fallen from there, which explained the broken wrist and ankle, perhaps even the jaw if he'd fallen head first. So it must have been wildlife that had ended him, or those dogs. But if so, why had they taken so little of him? Had something scared them off? Something bigger, or if not bigger then at least more intimidating than a bear? But what could—

A tiger. Or ti _gers_. She and Adam had wanted to visit a Sumatran tiger conservation park; the Sumatran tiger was on the critically endangered list, for which the Indonesian authorities had introduced a number of schemes to repopulate national parks _and_ various islands with them? That she couldn't remember whether or not the Latino had mentioned them effectively meant nothing. Even if he hadn't, didn't mean there weren't any. Because she was terrified, and totally ignorant of this place, she would be pliable, _gullible_. He could have told her there were baboons on this island and she would have taken his word for it. If he had lied to her about what creatures did exist here — and that wasn't to say he had; it was completely possible to have another apex predator in addition to everything else — he most certainly could have lied by omission about what didn't. "Surprise, bitch! Say hello to my little stripey friend!"

No, no, it couldn't be. Would he really be that cruel? Wouldn't he have derived more pleasure frightening her with the very notion of tigers, rather than the surprise? And what if _she_ had been the so-called apex predator whose arrival had scared off the scavengers? Wasn't that equally as possible?

Only then did she notice the preternatural stillness and silence covering the immediate scene. From somewhere far off came the sussuration of water, but here not even a breeze murmured.

This _was_ a trap. It was a trap because she had been idiot enough to waste potentially life-saving moments inspecting a corpse. What the hell had gotten into her? Why hadn't she just kept fucking running, for crying out loud?!

She barely heard it before she saw it: an ominous rustle of leaves somewhere behind her, the treading of undergrowth, and then—

She whipped round, and there it was, its round eyes glinting as they caught the light. Its giant, bone-crushing teeth bared. It let out a slow, deep roar, laden with menace, like distant, rolling thunder, harbinger of the storm. Its presence was the single most intimidating thing she had ever experienced.

Nothing existed in Isabel's world at that moment; nothing except paralyzing terror, and one sentence that came to her from the mists of a faraway memory whose source she had long since forgotten: "Do. Not. Run. Stare it in the eye."

She couldn't have run, even if she had wanted to. And, in the same way as when her eyes had first met those of her human captor, neither could she look away. She was bound to this beast, just as she had been bound to him, and her fate was in its hands.

It couldn't have been more than a second later when a gunshot cracked the silence. The tiger turned and fled left, back through the foliage, weaving through the trees and disappearing over a hillock. Just like that, it was over.

Isabel wheeled in a circle, scanning the night-veiled terrain for the shooter. Although the trees and vegetation were sparser here, she saw no-one. Her captor — no, one of her captor's men — had _saved her life_. The irony certainly wasn't lost on her.

But no, they hadn't; either _she_ had, or the creature had never intended to kill her in the first place. It was either that millisecond when she turned to face it that made all the difference, or the animal was warning her off its meal. That gunshot might be less to scare aware the tiger than to let _her_ know she was being watched. How long had her captor been planning this little game, she wondered, if he already had sentries set up? Or were they, too, tailing her, and radio-ing back to him? Didn't that defeat the purpose, though? If he knew where she was and where she was headed, wouldn't that just eliminate the fun? Or maybe it was the norm to have comrades dotted around the island?

It came as a surprise that, despite the fear and panic occupying most of her headspace, not only had she not degenerated into a pitiful wreck, but that she hadn't completely lost the rest of her cognitive faculties either. But still, she was thinking too much — it was the nerves, the come-down from her encounter with the tiger — and she had to consciously try and stop it. The important thing was that her captor clearly wanted her alive...for now, although that didn't mean she could count on them showing up whenever she landed in trouble. She had to go, before the tiger returned, because next time she might not be so lucky.

Without bidding Martin's mangled corpse farewell, she took off... only to halt abruptly mere seconds later. What she had presumed to be slope downwards transpired to be a sheer drop, and around fifteen meters down, a fast flowing river, cleaving the island in two. About 200 meters to her left stood a multi-layered waterfall, ceaselessly rumbling. Her heart gave a painful clench, and she gulped, hard. It seemed hardly believable that she had been scarcely seconds away from these landmarks, back where Martin lay, yet they hadn't sounded so close. This island was playing tricks on her... or her own mind was. Had her captor somehow laced the water and food he had given her with a slow acting drug? In her partially compromised mental state, maybe she hadn't noticed that the bottle of water or the protein bar were already open? Could she be hallucinating?

No, she couldn't let herself think anything along those lines. She had to trust her senses, and proceed with as much caution as was possible. This place was full of surprises, so she needed to concentrate on keeping her wits about her.

The adjacent cliff stood a good hundred meters away, and the only route across was a rickety old bridge that looked too flimsy to support anything substantial. But what other route could she take? Venture left, the way the tiger had gone? It may be somewhere else entirely now, but she didn't fancy taking her chances. Venture right, which would mean more rock climbing? Not if she could help it. And turning back was a bad idea, because she had been even more hemmed in by rocky slopes there than she was now. Therefore, crossing the bridge was her only viable option. Despite its flimsy appearance, if muscle-bound men — groups of them, possibly — used it and survived, she would have no problem, as long as she trod carefully.

She paused for a beat, taking one last look behind her, hoping and praying to simultaneously see nothing untoward and to see something. If she happened to catch sight of the tiger, or a bear, she'd have to instantly rethink her way around the river; if a tiger or bear pursued her onto the bridge, or if one appeared on the other side — shit, she hadn't thought of that — she would be done for. They could probably survive a fifteen meter drop into the raging, rocky torrents; her puny human body would be shattered like glass.

_Please let there be nothing there. Please, please, please._

It appeared her prayers had been answered. Nothing immediately visible at any rate; barring any predator lurking in the undergrowth, or behind one of the many clusters of trees, which couldn't be ruled out. She looked as far ahead as she could, half expecting the tiger, a bear, or even her captor to emerge, the latter of whom would smile and give her a jolly wave, but again nothing stirred. Then again, they wouldn't be a decent predator if they let themselves be sighted. They could be anywhere, just biding their time until she was at her most vulnerable.

_Fuck..._

What could she do? Whichever route she took, she was equally in danger. If she went left or right, her best means of escape from a predator wouldn't be to run but to climb a tree, which was as pointless as it was impractical. Just because she had managed to surmount a small rocky wall didn't mean she had suddenly become any more skilled at climbing trees, and when in the tree she would be stuck, pitted against the strong will and tenacity of a hungry beast.

It had to be the bridge. And if it collapsed, or she simply fell, it would be a quicker, probably less painful demise than being mauled and eaten alive. That decided her.

She stepped onto the bridge.

 

* * *

 

With no watch or phone to guide her, she lost track of time. It could have been half an hour before the next eventful happening, or an hour, she couldn't be sure. It had been at least two now, she figured, watching the tranquil waves lap at the shore.

She had seen him.

She had been picking her way through a copse on one of the place's innumerable hillsides when, to her shock, he came into view directly ahead of her, fifty meters away. Her dismay was soon mollified as he appeared not to have seen her, instead turning right and continuing up the wooded incline in the direction she had been planning to go. Isabel had held back, watching him traverse the sparsely wooded terrain adroitly. Weighing up whether to go back the way she had come, or follow him, she had waited until he was another fifty meters ahead, and had then decided to creep along after him, praying he wouldn’t turn around. After all, her tailing _him_ would be the last thing he would expect if he thought she was smart. Perhaps she _was_ stupid, then, or just plain crazy. Or maybe morbidly curious. She knew damn well she should have bolted the other way, yet for the life of her she felt compelled to follow him, to try and play him at his own game. If this were a film, she would have been the kind of character whose stupidity viewers would have derided, she was certain of it. But no matter; she could turn back at any time.

 _I can quit any time I like,_ jested the latent addict in the back of her mind. _Yeah. Sure._

All had gone relatively well for the next ten minutes. The wood was as uneven as the hill it grew from; denser coverage in some parts, lighter in others. Illumination from the full moon cast glowing blue pools in the spaces between trees, tinged every object with a bright white lining, and cast disproportionate shadows. Although her captor moved fast, it hadn’t been too difficult to keep track of him in the sparser areas. The denser ones had been problematic, though. With only a vague outline to go by, she had nearly lost him on several occasions.

Not once had he looked round. Either he genuinely hadn’t sensed her presence, or he was playing a game with her, possibly even leading her into a trap. Any second he could have swung round and shot her, and at that thought she had considered quitting and letting him go on. But, she had come this far, and loathe though she was to admit it, she felt a sort of perverse thrill at being on the brink of peril and just about managing not to tip over. She had survived climbing a wall, a near face off — perhaps literally — with a tiger, and crossing a bridge that felt even flimsier than it looked. She had made it through this far without detection, even if not by his well-concealed patrolmen but by him, so it seemed. In spite of all this, some twisted part of her psyche was actually enjoying it, ever seeking the next wave of heart-stopping terror.

She had decided to keep following him, no matter where it lead her, and despite vociferous protestations from the sane side of her. To that end she had trekked on, stealthily, until he had entered a particularly thick section, the canopy too proliferous to admit more than pinpoints and scant scratches of light. It was then that he vanished completely.

_What?!_

Cautiously, she had grappled her way though the mass of rough, dark obstacles, hoping to catch sight of him, but all in vein.

How could he disappear like that? Just how the hell was that even possible?!

She had stopped, listening attentively for the sound of rustling, but had been rewarded with nothing. Then she had dropped to the ground, straining her eyes to see if she could make out a figure laying there, but it was too dark, and without even the sound of breathing to guide her. The waiting game continued for a further few minutes, until eventually, flummoxed and more than a little unnerved, she had decided to go on. Back to being the pursued.

Bastard had known all along, hadn't he? That was why he had pulled this little trick — letting her know who the island belonged to, and who was in control. More fool her for even entertaining the possibility of fucking with him. She had set herself up for this, and deserved the humiliation.

 _I am the one who fucks with people, hermana_ , she imagined him hissing, alcohol and marijuana laced breath a ticklish dance against the shell of her ear as he misquote _Breaking Bad_ 's Walter White. And he was continuing to play her by letting her 'escape' once more. Allowing her the temporary illusion of escape, before he struck. In the meantime, however, would he ensure her safety from whatever predators he had mentioned? All the ones she had forgotten? Or would he just let that one play out, smirking from the sidelines?

So she had resolved to quit this idiocy, this lunacy. She was better than that. Scared and puny and captive she may be, but she was not going to keep making a dolt of herself for his amusement.

She had chosen to venture right, instead of going directly ahead as it appeared he had done — if indeed he had done; who the hell knew — and had trekked on through varying quantities of trees and all plants until she reached a wide clearing upon which several pigs grazed. Never once did she stop or turn her head to perhaps catch sight of her pursuer. He wouldn't have let her.

The clearing stretched on, up and over a hill that looked oddly bald above the archipelagos of tree clusters. Covered by a shining carpet of moonlight, with the dew on each blade of grass transformed into a billion glistening diamonds, it seemed near phantasmagoric. How Isabel had the capacity to notice the poetry in things at that point, she couldn't figure it. She had followed on up the hill, over the top of which revealed just how high she had climbed. She could see the ocean from here, a sliver of beach, and close to its banks a dirt road painted white-gold in the moon's rays. She trod a careful, gradual path down to it, hoping that it might lead her to the port she had alighted on; an island as small as this wouldn't have more than one, surely?

This time, she had endeavored to keep her mind deliberately blank – not even thinking about _him_ – focusing instead on getting down the hill safely, the warm summer air, the muffled sound of her own footsteps, the chirping of the crickets, and the strangely less than feverish beating of her heart. Several times she could have sworn that she had heard footsteps behind her, navigating the terrain with as much fluency as she had difficulty, and although this struck the fear of God into her, she neither stopped nor looked round. Her pace was limited by the steepness of the decline; if her captor was ready to catch her, there was nothing she could do. There was also the possibility her imagination was overworking again. Only when she reached the road did she survey her surroundings, to find no-one there.

 

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN 2:
> 
> Swinging in and back out like a chimp on a revolving door...
> 
> I've got stuff to stay; not much, but I have to say it nonetheless. I'm thrilled to have all you readers on board, especially in such a small fandom and over four years since the game's heyday. However, it would be even better if you could post a review every so often, even if it's only for one chapter. I put a lot of time and effort into crafting a fic, and as a writer I thrive on reader feedback - most of all, constructive crticism. It would be wonderful to know what you enjoy about the story; and equally, what you don't. Is there anything you think could be improved? Noticed spelling mistakes, any grammatical errors etc? If con-crit isn't your thing, though, then just a review (however small) would be much appreciated. If English isn't your first language, feel free to post in your native language. I appreciate it may not always be easy to know what to say; I have the exact same problem wh en reviewing other people's fics. But if nothing comes to mind, even one word - "Fantastic!"/"kudos"/"whut?!"/"Noodles" - would be great.
> 
> I'm not obligating anyone to review - all I'm saying is it would be nice, is all :) If you still would prefer not to, then at least I can say I tried. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say.


	14. 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN 1: For the sake of making the plot work, I've had to alter the geography of the location from the start of the game. I was unable to adhere rigidly to the canon for several reasons; not least because, when playing the game, I forgot the locations were so small (the north island is approx 10km²/6.21miles²; the south, approx 8km²/4.97miles²), or that the camp from the beginning ("Make a Break For It") is not part of the north island, or the island in "Payback" where you kill Vaas. In fact, it's not actually on the map; you can explore it yourself with a mod called Generals Open World (coordinates are X:369.2, Y:841.6). Thus, I've had to shake a few things up. I've made the island from the beginning significantly bigger than it presumedly is in the canon, taking it to around 5km²/3.1miles² . 
> 
> Next chapter in 1-3 weeks.
> 
> \- - - - - - - - 
> 
> TRACK RECOMMENDATIONS:
> 
> Part 1: Mondkopf – Fading Rainbow
> 
> Part 2 until end of Part 3: Eliane Radigue – Kyema (Trilogie De La Mort, Chapter I), and Eliane Radigue – Kailasha (Trilogie De La Mort, Chapter II) played at the same time.

**CHAPTER 12**

This was the first time she had seen him look confused. Cheerful; hostile; inviting; threatening; passionate; cool; but never confused. It couldn't have been genuine confusion, though, because he surely knew why his presence wasn't welcomed. He wasn't stupid, and he certainly wasn't _that_ crazy.

"Ayy, no digas eso, Isabel," he said disappointedly. Don't say that. "Viné desde tan lejos." _I came such a long way._

Isabel couldn't decipher whether that was a facetious remark or a veiled threat; and although the reactionary, fist clenching and foot-stamping child in her wanted to protest differently, the level-headed adult managed to maintain control and keep her silent. She merely held his gaze, as coolly as she could muster, praying this gesture of defiance wouldn't set him off. After a long beat, she replied dispassionately "Please".

For the briefest of moments his expression bordered on hurt, more likely in jest or an attempt at headfuckery than as a misguided appeal to her sympathy, but she ignored it. Somewhere inside she rejoiced at how well she was doing; it was almost like being back on that island again, learning to climb vines. Nevertheless, she couldn't afford to let herself get too comfortable.

The Mohawk-haired man sighed, gave a half-hearted little shrug, then replied casually "Listo." _OK_ in Colombian Spanish. Surprised, Isabel fought back the sudden urge to ask him how he knew it. When speaking his native language his accent certainly wasn't the Bogota Colombian of her relatives which was the only one she was familiar with, nor did he address her in the third person vernacular typical of that region; that wasn't to say it didn't hail from a different region, or that he didn't have experience of the country, or people from it. He gave a small smirk, his use of her dialect obviously having elicited something of the desired reaction from her.

Shit, she'd fallen into his trap again. Fuck him and his games.

 _But... what? Wait a minute..._ Assuming this wasn't another game, he was seriously going to agree to leave, just like that? Although she'd had no idea what to expect, it certainly wasn't something so anticlimactic. There would be a catch, somewhere, something to trip her up when she least expected it. It had to be a game in some way or other—she felt it down to the very marrow in her bones.

She watched him as he stood up, awaiting something else to happen, ready to flinch if need be. Once standing he reached into the left pocket of his jacket, promptly retrieving a folded up piece of white paper. Without a word, he held it out to her. Cautiously she took it.

"En caso de que cambies de idea," he said breezily, before striding past her and out of view. _In case you change your mind._

Thrown by the sudden course of events, Isabel found herself momentarily incapable of deciding whether or not to watch him leave. She wanted to make sure he did, but wouldn't it seem too... needy, somehow? Eager? As in, "the lady doth protest too much"? If she watched him go, wouldn't she really be communicating that she wanted him to stay? Did she want him to stay, despite a minute ago being desperate for him to leave? She didn't know. What in God's name was going on in her head? She stayed put.

"De paso," he said to her back, "ya funciona tú carro." _By the way, your car works now._

_Thank you so much. If you hadn't messed with it in the first place, you wouldn't have even needed to take the trouble. Fucksake, just go already. Get out before I do change my mind._

Although he wouldn't be able to see more than her head from where he stood, she hoped he couldn't sense the anxious, impatient wiggling of her fingers. Mercifully, he didn't linger; she heard the door open, and then promptly close. Immediately she sprang to her feet and turned around, half expecting to find him still there, but he wasn't. Praise the heavens above, he had gone. Although that didn't mean he had actually left the premises completely, did it? He might still be loitering outside, or had jimmied open a window elsewhere in the bungalow and entered that way.

As if in psychic response to her question, the sound of an astonishingly loud car engine sparking to life filtered through the walls, followed by a massive roar as it sped past; a noise so loud it took a while to fully disappear. Not the clunky rattling of her own old wreck of a vehicle, but the confident growl of a supercharged V8 engine. A sound both intimidating _and_ sexy, loathe though she was to admit it. That had to be him, ever the grandstander. She would need to be more alert leaving and returning from now on, keep a lookout for muscle cars and supercars. Presuming he _would_ come back, obviously, the prospect of which perturbed and... excited her, yes, excited, in equal measure, as skewed and horrible and downright mystifying as that was.

But what if he didn't? This was like one one of those incidents when you wanted or thought you wanted something so bad, only for that something to happen and for you to discover that it wasn't what you wanted at all, by which time it was very possibly too late. She had been an utter fool to demand that he leave so soon. She glanced at the Ziplock bag of flowers, which she realized she didn't even know the name of, let alone what substances of a fine, powdery nature might be sharing the bag with them; she should have at least made more of an effort to get some concrete answers out of him. Now she might never know. She put the bag on the coffee table, staring at its contents as if the mere act of doing so would magically conjure up those very answers.

_What if he doesn't come back?_

_That's assuming he even left,_ her paranoia piped up. _You really think he'd back down so easily? Just because you heard a car leaving doesn't mean he was in it._

Her heart gave a little leap of that same, sickening excitement, and she wished she could shoot it down in flames, kill it, murder it, burn it to dust. This was so, so wrong. She shouldn't be feeling this way. No sane person would. Maybe getting away from her house would help? If her car was OK now, then why not? She could go back to work and sleep in the stock room, uncomfortable and awkward as that would be? If her long lost captor wanted to murder her, she'd be safer in company, in a place with cameras everywhere. Going to her mother's, sister's, or friends', wouldn't be an option as they would want to know why, and she couldn't face telling them, because that would necessitate telling the truth. At least at work, with people who didn't know her that well, she could use the excuse of professional eagerness, or feed them some bull about her electricity or water failing and no-one in her close circle answering their phones and thus her being unable to secure a crashpad for the night. It didn't sound entirely inconceivable. She would have to ask Sava to keep it from her mother, but that shouldn't be too much of a problem.

But supposing they saw through her lie? The fallout from that could be even worse. So where else could she feasibly go? A hotel would be too expensive, and a motel too insecure, and she sure as hell wasn't going to the police station, much less drive to some remote place and sleep in her car.

Nothing for it but to stay put, then, which would mean a thorough inspection of every hiding place in every room, just to be sure. It wasn't paranoia if someone really was stalking you.

Fifteen minutes later the inspection was complete, and Isabel felt satisfied that he wasn't in the bungalow. She spent a further ten minutes scrutinizing the front and back yard, even giving the roof a cursory glance, but he wasn't in any of those places. Neither had she uncovered anything resembling miniature cameras or listening devices, although she wasn't about to tear the rooms apart in the hope of finding any. If he _had_ fitted some, they would probably be his contingency plan in case she contacted the police. On the other hand, if their intended purpose was to let him perve on her, it wasn't anything he hadn't seen before, except with 30lbs more fat; a creepy thing to do, sure, but nothing that would endanger her life.

So why didn't the very prospect creep her out as much it should? Why didn't the vaguest possibility of it leave her feeling repulsed and violated?

She didn't want to address that right now, didn't want to address anything except trying to get some goddamn sleep. He was gone and she was unharmed, so she could rest easy for the time being. If he came back tomorrow or later tonight, that was then, and she would have to deal with him then; at this moment in time she had to concentrate on the now, lest she forever live in trepidation and let the rest of her life unspool as a result. She had to keep it together in whatever way she could. If she had managed to find the inner fortitude to tell him to leave, she could equally well manage to put him out of her mind for the amount of time it would take to get to sleep.

The folded up piece of paper silently beckoned to her. _Open me. Open me. Now._ But she ignored it—it was likely another of his mindfuck games, with some cryptic message inside, or perhaps even nothing at all. Probably the latter.

"Fuck you," she said aloud to it, and went to bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Nocturnally and by moonlight, bodies of water took on almost surreal quality. It was as if at night they became something more, something literally magical, like portals to another dimension, that wouldn't kill you with currents or creatures or depths but instead transport you safely to some mystical otherworld on a different plane of existence. Isabel had been fascinated by them for as long as she could remember; and tonight here she was, standing on the shore of some Indonesian island whose name she didn't know, trying to evade a captor whose name she was equally ignorant of, and wishing that if she stepped into the ocean before her it really would sweep her away to safety and security. The calm, whispering waves, belying the horror that occurred on the land they bordered, seemed so inviting that she could almost make herself believe it. Almost.

God, this place was utterly beautiful at night, totally unbefitting of a criminal camp. It was all wrong, all fucking wrong... and so was she, for standing around admiring the scenery when she should be in frantic search of hiding places. She should go to the shack now, like she had planned to do when she came across it several minutes ago. Who the hell let themselves get distracted by the goddamn scenery during a chase?!

But she had wanted to rest. No, not rest exactly, for she wasn't physically tired; more that she just wanted, needed, to _breathe_. From the moment the intercepting pirate vessel had come into view that morning, she hadn't had time to catch her breath, and now, in this fresh, clear air, she needed to. It wasn't really such a reckless move; her pursuant had deliberately let her go before, if he knew where she was he would come to her when he felt ready.

The shack, raised five feet on stilts, stood roughly ten meters from the shore, where the grassy verge from the attenuating forrest encroached onto the crystalline sand—sand a pristine, paradisiacal white, rendered in shades of electric blue in the nocturnal glow, like fairy dust. To the left of it stood two rows of three solar panels the size of gym mats, mounted on some minivan-sized wheelbound contraption that Isabel deduced in her ignorance to be some sort of mobile hybrid generator. Earlier she had glimpsed the top of what must have been another of the same, obscured mostly behind what appeared to be a storage unit as big as an RV with horizontal vents down one end, when a winding path off the road lead her to a clearing on a hill, overlooking some sort of idle construction site. In hindsight, judging by the abundance of eco-friendly energy sources, she guessed the storage unit had to be the housing of some large diesel generator that the island's inhabitants had retired.

Another few meters to the left of the panel contraption stood a pale colored kiosk, shut down for the night—she had passed two previously at varying intervals on the road, stopping momentarily to inspect the first one, some newfangled wonder called a Solar Kiosk, as per the logo in large bold print on one side. For what was obviously a pretty tiny island in a country of archipelagos mostly reliant on off-grid diesel power, they seemed far ahead of the game; evidenced further when one route through the jungle had lead her to a leveled clearing the size of a hokey rink, housing what appeared to be a solar-powered microgrid setup.

But transitioning to environmentally friendly solutions wasn't exactly cheap, and from what she had seen of the camp, the pirate hoardes weren't decked out in designer bling and enjoying Krug and caviar. Furthermore, a place this developed energy-wise would have made news somewhere, wouldn't it? Therefore, wouldn't someone be aware of the goings on here? Not necessarily, depending on who as footing the bill for the developments. Even if someone did know, even if the Indonesian authorities were up to date with every little underhand dealing that took place here, with government corruption running rife in pretty much every country it was likely they willfully turned a blind eye. Witnesses could be rewarded for their silence, or coerced into it. And if that was indeed the case, she could forget going to the local police about her ordeal. Supposing she could even get to them in the first place, that was... but she couldn't let herself dwell on that. Not yet.

She climbed the five-step rise to the shack's doorway and gave the surprisingly solid door a gentle push. It opened without a hitch, and she stepped inside, remembering to close the door behind her. The vaguest hint of something resembling pine and citrus hung in the air, indicative of someone having smoked weed there within the last few hours. That she could recall from smoking weed during her freshman year at college, the scent didn't usually linger unless there was enough to gas a small city, but in an enclosed space such as this with only one window, albeit an open one with no apparent shutters, she guessed it might take longer to dissipate. There had been no-one in sight when she got here, which had to be a good sign...

_Right?_

_If it was any of them, he told them to leave you alone._

_But what if it's him?_

_It's not._

_Why not?_

_OK, well even if it is, he probably isn't ready to catch you yet._

Lit by an assortment of bare, colored lightbulbs strung from bamboo railings mounted high on the wall, the shack almost could have been one of those new-fangled hipster establishments that were popping up all over Toronto—those bars and eateries that made copious use of decor and items stripped down to their constituent parts and called them "deconstructed". The interior was pretty spartan, consisting on the right of three seater sofa with a blood-red throw covering most of it, and on the floor in the right hand corner, that definitive relic of a bygone era, a cathode ray tube TV, switched off. In the left hand corner stood an impressively sized standing fan—also switched off—and in between, a wooden table with an ancient Toshiba boombox and walkie talkie. Lastly, and perhaps most incongruously, though, in the middle of the floor lay a mattress, replete with a fitted sheet of a color so indeterminately murky in the dim light that Isabel couldn't decipher whether or not it was clean. So people, or someone, slept here often enough, or perhaps it was what went for "guest accommodation" on this island? The lap of luxury, ha ha.

The economist in her wondered briefly why the lights would be on when the place was empty. She quickly answered her own question, deducing it probably served as an outpost or lookout point and was frequented as regularly during the night as in the day, hence the solar kiosk and mobile generator nearby.

A stab of panic jutted into her chest at the notion of being discovered, before being quelled with tremendous relief as she remembered that her captor had forbid his troops from harming her. The ones on the island, at least, although if her wellbeing was so important to him he would no doubt have transmitted a message to any others.

Or would he? What if he couldn't? They all seemed to have walkie talkies here, but as far as she was aware, according to the odd crime drama she had sat through with Adam, the walkie talkie range never extended beyond a few miles at absolute maximum on unobscured land, and significantly less when there were obstacles in the way. Something to do with radio waves traveling in straight lines, and the horizon, she recalled one fictional detective saying. This island wasn't what you would call huge, and the camp seemed to be concentrated in the approximate center, so they didn't pose a problem, but there were a hell of a lot of trees and hills of various heights. Adam would have been able to tell her. Lying, cheating, scumbag Adam, whose partial fault it was that she had ended up in this mess. Fuck Adam.

 _Listen, Isabel,_ her common sense chimed in, _they obviously have some sort of system here. And whatever it is, it works._

It was right, of course—she had heard them talking on the walkie talkies the moment they'd sequested her and the other captives in the back of the truck, and then they had driven at a moderate pace for what felt like a good ten minutes. Suppposing no deception had been involved—no deliberate backtracking or circling to create the illusion of a longer distance—and that said moderate pace had been approximately 30km p/h, that would make her distance from camp to shore about...

_Fuck..._

Math had never been one of her strong points. All the same, considering the stopping and starting she had done, and the fact that she had never been a particularly fast runner, she reckoned she couldn't have traveled more than a couple of k's. Therefore, if walkie talkies were the pirates' main method of contact, and factoring out trees and hills as obstructions, _theoretically_ her captor should have had no problem contacting anyone out on roving patrol. But that was theoretically. If trees and hills reduced the range, she could forget about it. And even so, what if he had chosen not to tell them, hoping to make an extra terrifying surprise for her?

God, she was getting herself worked up again. She had to quit this before panic took over. She _could_ quit this — she had done astoundingly well so far.

 _Besides,_ her common sense reasoned, _they can always fall back on their cellphones or laptops o_ _r whatever._

That she hadn't come across any cellphone towers on the island meant nothing. Being one huge archipelago, Indonesia wasn't short of adjacent islands to build them on. And even if their broadband was lagging behind—although that seemed unlikely, given their advancements in sustainable energy—it existed nevertheless. Those stratosphere-based Project Loon balloons she had read about took care of most wifi needs; failing that, there were always portable wifi modems. One way or another, her captor would have gotten the message through. And he would have been telling the truth, because... because it would be less fun for him otherwise. If like he said he ruled this island, he wasn't the sort of man to accept another man's—and a subordinate's, at that—sloppy seconds. Whatever he planned to do to or with her, he would want first dibs on it. Therefore, bar any of the wildlife getting to her first, she was safe.

God, her muscles ached, far more even than after an intensive workout, and she felt a bizarre sort of weariness. Try as she did to convince herself it had to be psychosomatic—because she should be fine right now, adrenaline numbing any possible discomfort or fatigue in order to let her do what was necessary—her body refused to listen. She wanted to sit down, lay down, just for ten minutes.

 _Just ten minutes,_ she thought, seating herself on the couch and stretching out. _That's all. No more than that. I can count._

_That's enough to seal your doom._

_It's not. He doesn't want to find me yet._

_How do you know?_

_If I don't rest, I'll be too fatigued to continue._

_Actually, it's the other way round. Remember what that personal trainer guy at the gym told you—if you stop at a critical point, you lose all your momentum?_

_Yes, but this is a very different situation. Fine then, five minutes._

_Start fucking counting, moron._

 

* * *

 

A slight creaking of the shack door awoke her. Instantly, any haziness cleared, and she was acutely, painfully alert, but she forced herself to keep her eyes shut.

_Oh, no. Fuck, fuck, no..._

So much for counting five minutes—counting down from ten seconds under an anesthetic mask, more like. The idiot had gone and fallen asleep before she knew it... before she even remembered closing her goddamn eyes. Jesus, her subconscious must have had a death wish, one that may very well have been granted now. She had done some pretty reckless things in her time, but this topped them all. It wasn't even as if she could blame the marijuana. She might as well have erected a giant neon sign flashing MURDERER WELCOME on the roof of the shack. Her chest felt unbearably tight. Her stomach turned a mini somersault. A hot tingling sensation came to her face, a sort of stinging, as if she had just been slapped, although she could swear her complexion had paled rather than reddened. Gooseflesh colonized her bare arms and legs, clamminess beginning to seep from what felt like every pore, and her clothes suddenly seemed to chafe the skin they covered, prickly and uncomfortable. Fear alone forced her to keep her eyes shut, although it couldn’t quash was the incessant pounding of her heart. She held utterly still, as still and rigid as a corpse in rigor mortis.

The door closed.

_Oh God…no._

She waited. One… two… three… four seconds.

Nothing.

Five… six… seven…eight… nine.

More nothing.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

The air settled, and there was absolute peace again, as if she was alone, as if nothing had happened. Out of nowhere, the urge to look swooped down upon her, so strong it was agonizing. Why, she couldn’t fathom. All she knew at that moment was that she had to fight, with every fiber of her very being, to keep her eyes clamped shut.

Just as quickly as it had descended, footsteps disrupted the superficial calm. Approaching at an impossibly soft and slow pace. Stealthy, almost inaudible, milking the prelude for all it was worth.

_Please… no..._

_You asked for this. It's your fault._

Then again, there was no way of telling how long she had slept. For all she knew, it may indeed have been no more than five minutes, maybe substantially less... which would mean she hadn't doomed herself. He may have been hiding when she arrived at the shack, just waiting for her to go inside... And she would have checked the place out, regardless, in the hope of procuring anything potentially usable as a weapon. People wouldn't randomly leave firearms, knives, or incendiary devices lying around the island, but there was always a chance they would in a building, even one unattended. So she had a legitimate excuse. It wasn't her fault.

_Right, and it never occurred to you to use rocks as weapons?_

_Too unreliable. And they would have weighed me down._

_Uh huh. You think your aim would be any better with a rifle, given your 100% stellar track record of never so much as touching one before?_

Her heart beat against the confines of her ribcage like a frantic horse trying to knock down its stable door. The faux leather of the couch became a mass of needle-sharp talons, clawing at her increasingly-sensitive skin. If the approaching man wasn’t going to tear her apart before she had a chance to fight, her immediate surroundings certainly wouldn’t waste the opportunity.

He took a step closer, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention. Another step, and the fingertip of a frozen, skeletal hand stroked an icy path down her spine. That was it: the distance had been breached, and he was so close she could almost taste him. Her senses, thrown into disarray, had her throat constricting. How she couldn't even begin to explain, but she felt him on a pheromonal level—overpowering, sickly sweet, and intoxicating; oozing from every pore in his body, soaking his clothes, swallowing the room’s oxygen and marijuana residue and replacing it with a suffocating, noxious cloud. And she could feel, sense, his complete control, and how he was relishing every moment of it. This was _deliberate_. He was going to make her choke on her own terror.

This wasn’t fair.

But that was life, wasn't it? No-one was guaranteed fairness, and why should she ever have expected as such? Just get on with it, fair or unfair, and do whatever is necessary to survive.

Survive. And she owed it to herself, to her own dignity, to try.

With her breath held, she gathered up every ounce of her courage, and in one lightning-swift movement opened her eyes and lunged off the couch at him, striking him in the stomach with a clenched fist. Remarkably, she didn't break her hand in the process. Her captor stumbled a half step backward, more in surprise than pain, but she went for him again, undaunted, this time aiming for his solar plexus. However, he was too quick, anticipating her move before she had even completed it, clamping strong hands around far weaker wrists and wasting no time bringing a knee up sharply into her stomach. Using her momentum and pain-induced disorientation to his advantage, he toppled the both of them down onto the fortunately-placed mattress, whereby he forced her onto her back, pinning her wrists parallel with her head in a grasp so tight she feared they would break. Her fists unclenched of their own accord, unable to put up even a fraction of resistance. He held her in the most compromising of positions, with his legs between hers, and she struggled and wriggled and kicked wildly at the air, but to no avail. He bore down onto her, and any remaining mettle she thought she had simply crumbled into dust. He was too strong, as it was no use. She was an idiot for trying to fight him, trying to better him, despite knowing deep down inside that she had never stood a chance in hell. In a game of winners and losers, it wasn't the taking part that counted.

Trapped, her head swam, still adjusting from the commotion. The blood in her veins turned to liquid nausea, and for a moment she thought she might very well vomit. It was all on him now. Everything was him. Nothing else existed except this man and the likelihood that she would die by his hands. He wasn't playing games anymore, not even permitting her the merest delusion of freedom. Granted, she was never free to begin with, but now she couldn't even pretend.

What could she do now to get out of this? Cry? Plead? Beg? She didn't know. The only fucking thing she knew right now was just how fragile her life was. The immensity of death lay before her, as cold and dark as the vacuum of space in a universe of dead stars.

She turned her head to the side, closing her eyes. If he was going to kill her, rape her, or both, she didn't want to feel his breath on her face or see the macabre pleasure in his expression—that was one thing she wouldn't give him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN 2:  
> Not of any direct consequence to the fic, but over the next week I'm planning to make a start on trying to correct as many of my gramatical errors as possible. My copious use of fragments and run on sentences won't be going anywhere, because they're my precioussssssussssusssussssussses, and neither will my tendency to begin sentences with "and", "but", "well," etc, or personal pronouns; but if you feel like re-reading the fic you may have to don a black armband for a few soon-to-be-fallen em and en dashes, semi-colons, and elipses. I dunno. Maybe. We'll see. In the meantime, feel free to haul me up (via PM) on any grammatial mistakes you may notice.  
> Conversely, perhaps _of_ direct consequence to the fic, I'll also be making several adjustments to my musical recommendations, which I will notify you of in next chapter's AN. Again, these are simply that—recommendations rather than essential listening, because you don't need music to tell you how to feel. However if, like me, you feel that music often enhances the reading (or writing) experience, I felt it appropriate to notify you of any changes to it. One of the best things about fan fiction is that nothing is set in stone; you can go back and edit whenever you want. And, upon re-reading chapters I had written two years ago, I realised that some of the tracks I used didn't entirely fit. I'll explain more in my next update.


	15. FEB 03 2018 *UPDATE*

Checking back in (and out) like a hockey player changing on the fly (errr...that analogy doesn't exactly work, but you get my drift, right?) to let you all know that the story absolutely HAS NOT been abandoned. I love writing it too much for that, not to mention the fantastic feedback I get from you guys. I'm so grateful to have readers like you, and I cannot express how much I appreciate your patience. 

The story may be sleeping a couple more weeks, but I'll be back on it after that, so please keep metaphorical vigil at its metaphorical bedside. 

Love, hugs, and diabetes-inducing sugary stuff (because artificial sweeteners leave a revolting aftertaste IMO),  
LYSATD


	16. 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:  
> Drake popularised the nickname "The 6" (alternate spellings: "The 6ix"; "The Six") for Toronto. It refers to the six municipalities-- Etobicoke, Scarborough, York, North York, East York, and Toronto—that in 1998 were combined as a cost saving measure. There was some speculation it is derrived solely from the 416 area code, but Drake stated it was more to do with the municipalities. For many people, especially Millennials and younger, the name just stuck. I'm not a Drake fan, but I have no particular feelings about him coining the term. It's not one I use myself, though. 
> 
> \- - - - - - - - 
> 
> TRACK RECOMMENDATION:  
> Part 2: Brian Eno - Matta (1983)
> 
> \- - - - - - - -

**CHAPTER 13**

 

According to social scientist Robin Dunbar, the maximum amount of friendships the average person could maintain was 150. That seemed like a huge amount to Isabel, who, even in her pre-Indonesia life had never been the most popular of people. Until the events that precipitated her split with Adam, her friends were few, but, she believed, close. Back then, in what she had come to think of as a sort of mythical Time Before Time because of its stark contrast to her present day life, she hadn't cared; people could take her or leave her. If they didn't like her it was no skin off her nose. Post-Indonesia, she felt in a way fortunate to receive positive attention from anyone, albeit attention she didn't truly welcome, and from people she had nothing in common with. With the exception of Sava, her latter day colleagues were cut from the _Trailer Park Boys_ cloth—the dregs of society who had hockey team sized broods with as many partners by the time they reached Isabel's age, and thought smoking weed and boozing till they passed out constituted a fun weekend. They were born in the trailer, they lived in the trailer, and they died in the trailer, with no desire or ambition for change.

Now, however, she was effectively one of them. Less than one of them, in fact; at least they had social lives, and knew how to enjoy themselves. Perhaps it was karma for regarding them in a lower estimation than herself, despite being raised with good Catholic values never to look down on those less fortunate. She had never been a bad person—she possessed her fair share of minor follies, same as practically everyone, but she had never intentionally done anything immoral. Everyone had their own prejudices, but so long as they chose not to act on them it didn't make them reprehensible people. She may have secretly looked down on the working class, from her (former) comfortable middle class life, but she had never actively targeted them for mistreatment. Was she consigned to eternal damnation purely for how she had felt? Besides, when so many other people in the world prospered from prejudice, why was she being singled out by some great cosmic force for her comparatively insignificant transgressions?

Why? Because it was no more or less than pure dumb luck. Whilst it seemed apposite that one such specimen of international trailer trash—no way a hoodlum like him had grown up anywhere but the streets—had been the one to upend her world, there was no deeper meaning to it than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yet the charismatic, new-found bane of her life certainly didn't feel like mere coincidence. Other people could come and go in her life and dear old Sin Nombre would still be nowhere near to checking out, such was his abhorrent value to her. To be so valuable as to be granted immortality in someone's mind, waking and sleeping and _fantasizing_ , that was power. Loath as Isabel was to admit it, the mysterious Latino would always have power over her, unless she could instigate some sort of radical change. No, that didn't feel like a case of simple bad luck; it felt like fate.

It was the reason she froze upon waking up for the second time that night, to find her right foot dangling at the end of the bed.

Even until the end of her adolescence, her bedtimes were plagued by the irrational fear that letting any limb dangle at the edge of the bed would be grounds for a monster to materialize underneath it, grab her, and yank her from the safety of the mattress down to a floor that would surely spell a horrific and agonizing death. That space beneath her haven of comfort and sleep held a mystical, terrifying quality; it was the portal to another world, another plane of existence, timeless and enduring, that held terrors unimaginable to naïve, innocent eyes. It hadn't helped that, once, her sister hid under the bed, pulling her out when her foot had accidentally stretched out too far upon turning over. That little incident had helped perpetuate a fear that should have passed with her childhood, one that grew from fears of immortal nightmare creatures below the bed to that of their real life counterparts; true evil and malice existed in the minds of people. It was _people_ who hid under your bed or in your wardrobe, primed to attack. People, fellow human beings, with unforgiving implements of torture, who wanted to revel in your terror, your anguish, your helplessness, your pain, and your humiliation. What Claudia had meant as a prank, others would treat as deadly serious business.

Deviants like that—psychopaths, murderers for hire or simply for kicks—proliferated in the underclass, said so many of the privileged elites born into wealth and security. She knew, because words to that effect had been directed at her and her sister on more than the odd occasion. For all the fanfare made by the Canadian publicity machine about the country being such a welcoming, ethnically diverse community all mucking in together, racism against certain ethnic groups still existed on the down low. It happened behind closed doors or sealed-off environments, in whispers rather than shouts, subtleties rather than overt displays. You'd be out, just minding your own business whilst Christmas shopping, and a group of waif-like fillies from the $20million mansion Bridle Path area would snicker behind their manicured hands at you.

“Mule,” one would whisper as you walked past.

“I think the correct term is “mula”,” another would correct her, slightly louder to ensure you caught it, but not enough for casual observers to notice.

“They caused swine flu, you know,” another would remark if you were still in earshot.

Perhaps you were in the luxury Holt Renfrew department store out of sheer curiosity, a hefty bag slung over your shoulder because you had been shopping and it was easier carrying things in one bag and having your hands free, and as you perused the designer wares some hedge fund manager's offspring would intone to her coterie “Booster bag game is strong on that one,”. “Maybe we should alert security?” another would muse. Yeah, she would probably get a medal for that one; The Six's finest had their daily quota of arrests to fulfill, after all.

Because, to a significant minority, if you were from Latin America—never mind Canadian-born and middle class—you were unrefined, uncouth, dirty by virtue of your very genes, and nothing and no-one could change their minds. Unless you happened to be from a substantially wealthy family, which would denote kudos irrespective of your ethnic makeup, you were lumped into the same basket with Pablo Escobar and el Chapo but without the street cred from the youth and the aspiring gangsters. You were Los Zetas or Mara Salvatrucha without the fear or 'respect'. You were a narco-trafficker or a narco mule. To those who had lived during the 1980s and remembered those times, your family supported Manuel Noriega, no doubt about it. Forget Che Guevara, Frida Kahlo, Carlos Santana, Isabel Allende, Cesar Milian and all the Latinos who had made a positive mark on the world; to the prejudicially inclined, any decent Latino was a fluke, and the rest were dirt people.

For all her clandestine prejudices against trailer trash society, at least Isabel had never actively persecuted them. And they, as the 'underclass' were no more deviant than Latinos, or blacks, Chinese or Iranian, or any minority group. There were more miscreants and criminals in Fortune 500 companies than likely the entire minority and white underclass demographics combined; big business was simply awash with cluster B personality disorder types. Most of the underclass, the minions, ended up in prisons; institutions that the higher earners and most well connected largely managed to deftly sidestep, because the minions took the rap for them, or because they were simply too important to fail. Very infrequently one of the rich guys or gals would be taken down for a mere blip in time, or brokered as part of a deal by those higher even than themselves. Said sacrificial lambs would enjoy a brief and cushy sojourn in an open prison where they got to wear tennis whites and every staffer had Bribery Welcome for middle names. Following a much reduced sentence of the criminally short one they had already received, they would be unleashed upon the waiting world, and allowed to wreak havoc afresh. 

The violent wrongdoers in street clothes and a swagger in their step could be incarcerated given capture and sufficient evidence, but there would never be enough security to neutralize the primped and preened ones who sat in billion dollar offices. The super-wealthy, too, were immune; a billionaire could be caught with the most damning evidence known to mankind and escape scot-free, because everyone had a price. For all the power that he wielded over his troops, her one-time captor was merely the street face of the operation; there was someone far bigger and badder at the helm, and possibly the Indonesian authorities, too.

Something far more worrying occurred to her, then: had the decision to let her go come from on high? If it had, that meant there was a definite possibility that someone was indeed playing the long game with her.

No, not necessarily. That was just the panic talking, jumping to the very conclusions that her captor(s) wanted, if his/their intention was purely to mess with her head.

But what if...?

 

* * *

 

Somewhere deep underground, she disembarked from a crowded train, buffeted by the teeming throng of fellow disembarking travelers. It was unusually busy for 1:30 a.m.; perhaps an impromptu mass migration that she should have been aware of, but wasn't. Maybe she should go with them, if where they were going to was a place of safety. They were making for the escalators, but she wasn't. She wouldn't. Coudln't, in fact. She knew she had to wait.

Weaving effortlessly in and out of crowds, as the pre-Indonesia version of herself had done, was no longer her strong suit. Nowadays she was clumsy and inept. As she did her best to duck out of commuter after commuter's way, moving towards the pillar farthest from the crowd, she felt infinitely grateful that none of her former students had, to her knowledge, witnessed her fall from grace; yet more grateful that none of them were here right now, watching her in the wake of her decision to do something utterly reckless, utterly _stupid_.

But wasn't that precisely why she was doing it at all—regaining that sense of freedom and youth, casting off the trappings of logic and reason and better judgement, and just _living;_ just like she had, for all of several moments, dreamed of doing during that surreal meeting with one of his underlings? Perhaps it would give her the closure that she never knew she needed until now, or perhaps it would open the door to something more fantastical than she could ever have imagined? In all likelihood, it would do neither, but the fact was, the part of her that had been lost after Indonesia couldn't be found anywhere else; in order to even stand a chance of regaining it, driving with the lights off was something she needed to do. If she followed the white rabbit down that hole, to wherever it happened to lead, maybe she would find something of her old self still held captive there. And maybe, if she kept her wits about her, she would help it escape.

Then again, maybe that was all BS, and she just wanted to get laid.

She stayed by the pillar for what could have been at most a minute, but felt much longer, until the last stragglers had gone. There she was, all alone, after the last train, at the last stop, at the end of the line, with the breeze of activity leaving nothing but preternaturally still air and the barest whispers of sound. Nothing else existed but this right now, it seemed, because it felt as if the big Everything Else was on pause, holding its breath, waiting for her to make her move. A pressing sense of importance was resting on her, heavier now than when she had left the train, its weight equal parts exciting and uncomfortable. It was ghost fingers with mass, drumming relentlessly on her shoulders, the rumble of an oncoming ghost train which would only increase, increase, increase in volume until she acted. And she had no choice but to go through with this; even if she suddenly wanted to back out, she couldn't, because there was nowhere to run to. Her body might be able to run, even to hide, but not her mind.

Her hand slipped away from the coldness of the tiled structure; it may have been her refuge from the charging passengers, but it couldn't protect her now. Then, as if on cue, right at the very end of the platform, all the lights went out. Had this been a horror movie, it would have been her signal to get spooked and run for the exit; only the super moronic, or dauntlessly brave but formidably armed, willingly ventured towards the shadows. She was neither. Then again, this wasn't a horror movie, even though it might well have been. He was there now, in that little enclave of shadow, waiting. She couldn't see him but she knew he was there. It may have been barely thirty meters, but it could have been a world away.

Her Good Friend of Late, Nausea, resurfaced once again, accompanied by a gust of dizziness so strong it nearly knocked her over. Following it came that other old familiar sense of implacable doom, like a ten tonne weight materializing above her. _Trapped, trapped, you are trapped,_ a mocking voice, giddy with schadenfreude, whispered internally in a manner typical of a nursery rhyme. _You cannot get away. You're locked in and this ride is going to climb to five hundreed feet—no, a thousand—and then the carriage is going to turn you face down so you can see juuuuust how high up you are... And get this, get_ this _: it's a. Sheer! Drop! Haha! Oh girl, have_ you _got_ problems _!_

She tried to fight it, shoving against it sideways on, pushing it back behind the door it had seeped out from; it was her, and if it was her she had control over it, in theory. It went, with less effort than she had expected, but perhaps that was because it wanted to, and was simply lulling her into a false sense of security so it could strike out unexpectedly.

When your own mind was against you, who did you have?

Was he the one who had done this to her, or had this internal foe always been there, laying dormant until the conditions were right for it to awaken? Had he somehow recognized this duality in her, this evil twin of a latent illness, and targeted her in the way he did so he could have the satisfaction of knowing that he had thoroughly fucked her up? That was, if targetting her had even been his own idea at all, and not an order he was following? Was letting her go part of his or someone else's game, not out of any conscience—she presumed that much already—but because it would be a whole lot more amusing for him, for them, if she was alive, with him having set up shop in her too-receptive-for-her-own-good head, than dead, where she would be beyond torment? After all, why else would his parting words to her be that there was no such thing as safety?

But if so, how would he or they know she would, first of all, live, and secondly, be sufficiently traumatized? Would he or they forever be keeping tabs on her for shits and giggles? Would he or any of them have intervened if she had attempted suicide? Even to someone as messed up as her, the whole concept seemed ludicrous. One former captive, who had willingly had sex with her captor, simply wasn't of enough value for such an effort, was she? It wasn't as if she had something he or his superios(s) really wanted, like an enormous trust fund, underworld connections, or a miraculous, skin-soluble form of cocaine in her vagina's natural lubrication—and if she had, he or they wouldn't have waited two whole years to track her down. He, or they, had been stalking her these last couple of weeks, and fucking with her head, but that was only because they all happened to be physically in the vicinity. She was the bonus of this little vacation, not the motive.

Be all that as it may, none of it necessarily meant anything, anyway. Whatever her sickness was, and wherever it originated from—be that something organic to her, or _his_ external poison—right now it didn't matter. The only important thing was that he was here. _That_ was what she had to prioritize dealing with.

She didn't want to move towards the darkness; what she wanted was to stand there and wait it out until the lights came back on.

 _Martin was waiting for the lights,_ said the formerly mocking voice, only now it sounded more panicked than gleeful, _not in the same way you are, obviously; he was fumbling around for the light switch in the middle of the fucking jungle and that's a pretty stupid thing to do because you'll fall off a huge rock and break your ankle and then the animals'll get you and who looks for light switches on top of huge fucking rocks anyway but he'd just wanted to take a little excursion to a party island because he needed to pee and the locals misdirected him they said the bathroom is on the island but come on I mean come on you're just asking for it if you fall for a crock like that oh by the way you know there's a tiger over there and don't forget you must look it right in the eyes or it'll rip your jaw off like it did Martin's oh holy shit I bet that hurt what a way to go the poor guy you don't wan-_

For some reason, she burst out laughing, and found she couldn't stop. The voice ceased its inane babbling, but Isabel wasn't sure a fit of hysterics was any better. This was all so absurd. Here she was, her body sitting at a cheap, plastic table on Pulau Samalona, but the cheapness didn't matter, nor did the fact that she had split with Adam, because the sun was so bright and pure and glorious, and the warm breeze was tousling her hair—invisible fingers, again; where did she remember those from?—and the sea air smelled wonderful, and everything looked so idyllic... Yet, her mind was miles away in daydream land, where she had been standing on the platform of a subway station, getting stressed out over a few lights at the end of the line turning off. Why had she wandered off there? And what was so frightening about a few lights going out?

Carried on the wind, from a place far away, came the sound of a door creaking, and the vague scent of something resembling a mixture of pine and citrus. She knew that smell, from her college days... no, closer than that. It was the smell, more than the sound, that jogged her memory, and all of a sudden she felt compelled to turn around in her chair, because the source of that memory was behind her and steadily approaching. Should she be scared, she wondered? Come to think of it, perhaps she _was_ starting to feel a little uneasy; but that seemed strange, because unless you had some form of emotional dysfunction you didn't _think_ you _might_ feet a certain way, did you? You just felt. But her emotions seemed somehow detached from herself, something she understood more on an intellectual level than an instinctual one, in the way she imagined someone with alexythimia would. She had to work to truly understand that she was feeling something, and what it was that she was feeling.

A silent voice filled in the missing link. "Oh..." she muttered aloud in response to it. So _that_ was it: the emotional detachment was deliberate. Something must have happened, and on account of that something, she didn't want to feel. Furthermore, she wanted to forget... something. Well, her memory, or lack thereof, must have done a decent job, because she clearly didn't remember... whatever it was.

Therefore, turning around wasn't the best course of action. She should instead stand up and walk away.

 _Yeah,_ a sardonic voice piped up in her head, _on a minuscule island you can walk around in five minutes. Good luck with that_. Besides, if she didn't know what she was running from, she wouldn't know what, or who, to evade.

Whatever or whoever it was, it or they couldn't be that terrifying. She had probably blocked it or them out because of embarrassment, humiliation, or shame. With a staunchly Catholic mother who had never taken kindly to either of her daughters' departure from all things theological—aka, Living in the Modern First World, as Isabel called it—there were plenty of Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad things Isabel had internalized as inherently wrong; things that people whose parents weren't religious zealots saw as simply a part of growing up. Underage smoking. Underage drinking. Sex before marriage. Underage drug use. Masturbation. Forgetting that those things were Wrong was something that actually served Isabel; ergo, in all likelihood, that was what or who she had now had to confront. No biggie.

So she turned-

She awoke on her back, opening her eyes to the familiar darkness of her night-time bedroom... and a heavy weight on her chest. She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. Her ribcage was being crushed to the extent she could barely even breathe. Cross-legged atop her, peering down at her, was Martin as she had last seen him: Dead Martin. Except now, the tall New Zealander was reanimated. Undead. Zombie Martin. Dead Martin, the Dead Weight, now reeked of corruption and decay. He was spoiled meat, left out in the blazing sun too long. The animals had left him so that he could come to her. Black, gelatinous goo oozed from one of his many wounds, dripping onto the bare flesh of her right arm, and she would have gagged if her reflexes had allowed it. Empty, maggot-infested eye sockets bore into her, seeing her, despite his lack of vision. One of the maggots lost its moorings and fell, landing on Isabel's forehead.

She wanted, needed, to scream, but it was impossible. She needed to run away from this monster. And if she couldn't start breathing properly soon she would asphyxiate. Dead Martin didn't intend to let her scream, flee, or breathe. Dead Martin was here to kill her.

"I couldn't find the light switch," he rasped, except with his half-decayed tongue it sounded unintelligible, and Isabel only knew what he was saying because he had slithered his way into her goddamn _mind_ , too.

And then the gristle and bone of his claw hands reached for her throat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter in around 2-4 weeks. Much as I'd love to keep to a regular update schedule, I don't have enough free time to be able to make any assurances right now. It means so much that you wonderful readers are sticking around; if you continue to do so, you'll be rewarded eventually (teehee).


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